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Captains of Souls 


BY 

EDGAR WALLACE 

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Author of 

** Jack o’ Judgment,” “ The Four Just Men,” etc., etc. 


Vivit 'post funera virtus 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 

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COPTBIOHT, 1922 

BY SMALL. MAYNARD & COMPANY 
(Ikcobpobatkd) 



Printed in the United States of America 


THB UDBBAT PBIlTTma COUPABT 
CAUBBIDOE, KABS. 


SEP 21 ’22 “ n 

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Dedicated to 
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Captains of Souls 

BOOK THE FIRST 

I 


Beryl Merville wrote: 

Dear Ronnie: We are back from Italy, arriving this 
afternoon. Daddy thought you would be there to meet us, 
and I was so disappointed to find nobody but Mr. Steppe. 
Oh, yes! I know that he is a most important person, and 
his importance was supported by his new car; such an 
impressive treasure, with a collapsible writing-table and 
cigar-lighter and library — actually a library in a cunning 
little locker under one of the seats. I just glanced at them. 

I am a little afraid of Mr. Steppe, yet he was kindness 
itself, and that bull voice of his, bellowing orders to porters 
and chauffeur and railway policemen was comforting in a 
way. Daddy is a little plaintive on such occasions. 

I thought he was looking unusually striking — Steppe I 
mean. People certainly do look at him, with his black, 
pointed beard and his bristling, black eyebrows. You like 
him, don’t you? Perhaps I should too, only — he is very 
magnetic; a commanding person, he frightens me, I repeat. 
And I have met another man, I don’t think you know him, 
he said he had never met you. Daddy knows him rather 
well, and so does Mr. Steppe. Such a queer man, Ronnie! 

He arrived after Daddy had gone to his club, to collect 
some correspondence. The maid came and told me there 
was a strange man in the hall who said Dr. Merville had 
sent for him; so I went down to see him. 

1 


2 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“ He made the queerest impression on me. You will be 
amused, but not flattered, when I confess that the moment 
I saw him, I thought of you! I had a sort of warm 
impulse toward him. I felt as though I were meeting you, 
as I wanted you to be. That sounds feeble, and lame, but 
employing my limited vocabulary to the best of my poor 
ability, I am striving to reduce my mad impression to 
words. How mad it was, you’ll understand. For, Ronnie, 
he was a stoutish man of middle age — no more like you 
than I am like Mr. Steppe! Yet when I saw this shabbily 
dressed person (the knees of his trousers shone and the 
laces of his untidy boots were dragging) I just gasped. 
He sat squarely on one of the hall chairs, a big, rough 
hand on each knee, and he was staring in an absent-minded 
way at the wall. He didn’t even see me when I stood 
almost opposite to him. But his head, Ronnie! It was the 
head of a conqueror; one of those heroes of antiquity. 
You see their busts in the museums and wonder who they 
are. A broad, eagle face, strangely dark, and on top a 
shock of gray-white hair brushed back into a mane. He 
had the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen in a man, 
and when they turned in my direction, and he got up from 
his chair, not awkwardly as I expected, but with the ease 
of an Augustus, there was within them so much loving- 
kindness that I felt I could have cried. 

And please, Ronnie, do not tell me that I am neurotic 
and over-tired. I was just mad — nothing worse than that. 
I’m mad still, for I cannot get him out of my mind. His 
name is Ambrose Sault, and he is associated with daddy 
and Mr. Steppe, though I think that he is really attached 
to that horrid Greek person to whom daddy introduced me 

— Moropulos. What sort of work he does for Moropulos 
I have not discovered. There is always a great deal of 
mystery about Mr. Moropulos and Mr. Steppe’s business 
schemes. Sometimes I am very uncomfortable — which is 
a very mild way of describing my feelings — about daddy 

— and things. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


3 


Ronnie, you have some kind of business dealings with 
father, what is it all about? I should so like to discover. 
It is to do with companies and corporations, isn’t it? I 
know Mr. Steppe is a great financier, but I don’t quite 
know how financiers work. I suppose I ought not to be 
curious, but it worries me — no, bothers is a better word 

— sometimes. 

Come and see me soon, Ronnie. I promise you I won’t 

— you know. I’ve never forgiven myself for hurting you 
so. It was such a horrid story — I blame myself for listen- 
ing, and hate myself for telling you. But the girl’s brother 
was so earnest, and so terribly upset, and the girl herself 
was so wickedly circumstantial. You have forgiven me? 
It was my first experience of blackmailers and I ought to 
have known you better and liked you better than to believe 
that you would be such a brute — and she was such a 
common girl, too — ” 

She stopped writing and looked round. “Come in.” 

The maid was straightening her face as she entered. 
“ That gentleman, miss, Mr. Sault, has called.” 

Beryl tapped her lips with the feathered penholder. 
“Did you tell him that the doctor was out?” 

“ Yes, miss. He asked if you were in. I told him I’d go 
and see.” Something about the visitor had amused the 
girl, for the corners of her lips twitched. 

“Why are you laughing. Dean?” Beryl’s manner was 
unusually cold and her grave eyes reproving. For no 
reason that she could assign, she felt called upon to de- 
fend this man, against the ridicule which she perceived in 
the maid’s attitude. 

“Oh, miss, he was so strange! He said: ‘Perhaps she 
will see me.’ ‘ Do you mean Miss Merville?’ says I. ‘Mer- 
villei’ he says in a queer way, ‘of course, Beryl Merville,’ 


4 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


and then he said something to himself. It sounded like 
‘ how pitiful I don’t think he is quite all there, miss.” 

“ Show him up, please,” said Beryl quietly. She recog- 
nized the futility of argument. Dean and her type found 
in the contemplation of harmless lunacy a subject for merri- 
ment — and Dean was the best maid she had had for years. 
She sat waiting for the man, uncertain. Why did she want 
to see him? She was not really curious by nature and the 
crude manners of the class to which he belonged usually 
rubbed her raw. The foulness of their speech, the ugliness 
of their ideals and their lives; the gibberish, almost an un- 
known language to her, of the cockney man and woman, all 
these things grated. Perhaps she was a neurotic after all; 
Ronnie was quite sure of his judgment in most matters 
affecting her. 

Ambrose Sault, standing in the doorway, hat in hand, 
saw her bite her lower lip reflectively. She looked around 
with a start of surprise and, seeing him, got up. He was a 
colored man! She had not realized this before, and she 
was unaccountably hurt; just colored and yet his eyes 
were gray! 

“ I hope I haven’t disturbed you, mademoiselle,” he said. 
His voice was very soft and very sweet. Mademoiselle? A 
creole — a Madagascan — an octoroon? From one of the 
French foreign territories, perhaps. He spoke English 
without an accent, but the “mademoiselle” had come so 
naturally to his lips. 

“You are French, Mr. Sault — your name of course?” 
She smiled at him questioningly and wondered why she 
troubled to ask questions at all. 

“No, mademoiselle,” he shook his great head and the 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


5 


mask of a face did not relax. “ I am from Barbadoes, but 
I bave lived in Port de France, that is, in Martinique, for 
many years. I was also in Noumea, in New Caledonia, 
that is also French.” 

There was an awkward silence here. Yet he was not 
embarrassed and displayed no incertitude of his position. 
Her dilemma came from the fact that she judged men by 
her experience and acquaintance with them, and the em- 
pirical method fails before the unusual — Ambrose Sault 
was that. 

“My father will be home very soon, Mr. Sault. Won’t 
you please sit down?” As he chose a chair with some delib- 
eration it occurred to her that she would find a difiSculty 
in explaining to the fastidious Dr. Merville, why she had 
invited this man to await him in the drawing-room. 
Strangely enough, she herself felt the capacity of entertain- 
ing and being entertained by the visitor and she had no such 
spasm of dismay as had come to her, when other, and more 
presentable, visitors, had settled themselves for a lengthy 
call. This fact puzzled her. Ambrose Sault was — an ar- 
tisan perhaps, a messenger, more likely. The shabbiness of 
his raiment and the carelessness of his attire suggested some 
menial position. One waistcoat button had been fastened 
into the wrong buttonhole, the result was a little grotesque. 

“Have you been working very long, with my father?” 
she asked. 

“No — not a very long time,” he said. “Moropulos and 
Steppe know him better than I.” 

He checked himself. She knew that he would not talk 
any more about his associates and the enigma which their 
companionship presented would remain unsolved, so far as 


6 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


he could give a solution. “ Moropulos ” — “ Steppe ”? He 
spoke as an equal. Even Ronnie was deferential to Mr. 
Steppe and was in awe of him. Her father made no attempt 
to hide his nervousness in the presence of that formidable 
person. Yet this man could dispense with the title. It 
was not bravado on his part, the conscious impertinence of 
an underling, desirous of asserting his equality. Obviously, 
he thought of Mr. Steppe as “Steppe”. What would he 
call her father? No occasion arose, hut she was certain he 
would have been “Merville” and no more. 

Sault’s eyes were settled on her, absorbing her; yet his 
gaze lacked offence, being without hostility, or notable ad- 
miration. She had a ridiculous sensibility of praise. So 
he might have looked upon Naples from the sea, or upon 
the fields of narcissi above Les Avants, or the breath-taking 
loveliness of the hills of Monticattini in the blue afterlight 
of sunset. She could not meet his eyes — yet was without 
discomfort. The praise of his conspection was not human. 

She laughed, artificially, she thought, and reached out for 
a book that lay on the table. 

“We have just returned from Italy,” she said. “ Do you 
know Italy at all, Mr. Sault?” 

“I do not know Italy,” he said, and took the book she 
held to him. 

“This is rather a wonderful account of Lombardy and 
its history,” she said. “ Perhaps you would like to read it?” 

He turned the leaves idly and smiled at her. She had 
never seen a man smile so sweetly. 

“ I cannot read,” he said simply. 

She did not understand his meaning for a while thinking 
that his eyesight was failing. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


7 


“ Perhaps you would care to take it home.” 

He shook his head and the book came back to her. 

‘T cannot read,” he said, without shame, “ or write — at 
least I cannot write words. Figures, yes, figures are ’easy; 
somebody told me — he was a professor of English I think, 
at one of the universities — that it was astonishing that I 
could work out mathematical problems and^ploy all the 
signs and symbols of trigonometry and afg^ra withoj^t 'be- 
ing able to write. I wish I could read.^^'^en I^^ss a 
bookshop I feel like an armless man who is star^i^g^within 
hands’ reach of salvation. I know a gjr^rdeab^nd I pay a 
man to read to me — Livy and Prescott 'and Green, and, of 
course. Bacon — I know them all. Writing does not worry 
me — I have no friends,” *. 

If he had spoken apologetically, if h^ had displayed the 
least aggression, she might have classified, and-^eld him in 
a place. But he spoke of his shortcomii^s a« he might have 
spoken of his gray hair, as a phi^omenon beyond his 
ordering. 

She was thunderstruck; possibly/fie was so used to shock- 
ing people from this cause that he did not appear to observe 
the effect he had produced. / 

He was so completely coi^tot with this, the first contact 
with his dream woman, that lie was almost incapable of 
receiving any other impression. Her hair was fairer than 
he had thought, the nose thinner, the molding of her delicate 
face more spirituel. The lips redder and fuller, the rounded 
chin less firm. And the eyes — he wished she would turn 
her head so that he could be sure of their color. They 
were big, set wide apart, there was depth in them and a 
something upon which he yearned. The figure of her he 


8 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


knew by heart. Straight and tall and most gracious. A 
patrician; he thought of her as that. And oriental. He had 
pictured her as a great lady at Constantine’s court; he set 
her upon the marble terrace of a decent villa on the hills 
above the Chrysopolis; a woman of an illustrious order. 

She could never suspect that he thought of her at all as 
a distinct personality. She could not guess that he knew 
her as well as his own right hand; that, day after day, he 
had waited in the Row, a shabby and inconspicuous figure 
amongst the smart loungers; waited for the benison of 
her presence. She had not seen him in Devon in the spring 
— he had been there. Lying on the rain-soaked grass of 
Tapper Downs to watch her walking with her father; sitting 
amidst gorse on the steep slope of the cliff, she unconscious 
of his guardianship, reading in her chair on the smooth 
beach. 

“ How curious, I nearly said ‘ sad But you do not feel 
very sad about it, Mr. Sault, do you?” Amused, he shook 
his head. 

“ It would be irritating,” he said, “ if I were sorry for 
myself. But I am never that. Half the unhappiness of life 
comes from the vanity of self-pity. It is the mother of all 
bitterness. Do you realize that? You cannot feel bitter 
without feeling sorry for yourself.” She nodded. 

“You miss a great deal — but you know that — poetry. 
I suppose you have that read to you?” 

Ambrose Sault laughed softly. “Yes — poetry. 

“‘Out of the dark which covers me. 

Black as a pit from pole to pole, 

I thank whatever gods there be. 

For my unconquerable soul — ’ 


II 


“Well, Sault, why have you come? Anything wrong?” 
Beryl would have thought Dr. Merville’s manner strangely 
mild and conciliatory after his show of antagonism toward 
the visitor. 

Sault had seated himself on the edge of a low chesterfield 
under the curtained window. “ Moropulos is worried about 
some people who called at his bureau today. They came 
to ask him about a letter that had been sent to him from 
South Africa by the assistant manager of the Brakfontein 
Diamond Mine.” 

Merville was standing by the library table, in the center 
of the room. The hand that played with the leaves of a 
magazine was trembling ever so slightly. “What has hap- 
pened — how did they know — who were they?” he de- 
manded shakily. 

“ I think it was the managing director, the American 
gentleman. He was very angry. They discovered that the 
manager had been receiving money from London soon after 
he made his report. Moropulos told me that the shares had 
dropped thirty points since yesterday morning. Mr. Div- 
verly said that Moropulos and his gang, those were the 
words I think, had bribed the manager to keep back the 
report that the mine was played out. I suppose he did. 
I know very little about stocks and shares.” 

Dr. Merville was biting his knuckles, a weak and vacil- 

11 


12 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


lating man; Sault had no doubts as to this, and it hurt 
him every time he realized that this invertebrate creature 
was Beryl Merville’s father. How and why had he come 
into the strange confederation? 

“ I can do nothing,” the doctor was fretful, his voice 
jerky; he fixed and removed his pince-nez and fixed them 
again. “Nothing! I do not know why these people make 
inquiries. There was nothing dishonest in selling stock 
which you know will fall — it is a part of the process of 
speculation, isn’t it, Sault? All the big houses work on 
secret information received or bought. If — if Moropulos 
or Steppe care to buy information, that is nobody’s affair — ” 

“There may be an inquiry on the Stock Exchange,” said 
Sault calmly. “ Moropulos asked me to tell you that. The 
Johannesburg committee have taken up the matter and have 
called for information. You see, the manager has con- 
fessed.” 

“Confessed!” gasped the doctor and went white. 

“ So Mr. Divverly says. He has told the directors that 
Moropulos had the information a month before the 
directors.” 

The doctor sat down heavily on the nearest chair. “ I 
don’t see — that it affects us,” he protested feebly, “there 
is no offense in getting a tip about a failing property, is 
there, Sault?” 

“ I don’t know. Moropulos says it is conspiracy. They 
can prove it if — ” 

“If 

“ If they find the letters which the manager wrote. Morop- 
ulos has them in his desk.” 

Merville sprang up. “Then they must be destroyed!” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


13 


he cried violently. “It is madness to keep them — I had 
no idea — of course he must burn them. Go back and tell 
him to do this, Sault.” 

Ambrose Sault put his hand into the fold of his shabby 
jacket and brought out a bundle of documents. “They 
are here,” he said in a matter of fact tone. “Moropulos 
says that you must keep them. They may get a warrant to 
search his house.” 

“Keep them — I?” Merville almost screamed, “Morop- 
ulos is a fool — burn them!” 

Sault shook his head. “ Steppe say ‘ no They may 
be useful later. You must keep them, doctor. It is Steppe’s 
wish. Tomorrow I will start working on the safe.” 

Dr. Merville took the papers from the outstretched hand 
and looked around helplessly. There was a steel box on 
his desk. He took out his key, looked again and more du- 
biously at the packet of letters and dropped them into the 
box. “What is this safe, Sault? I know that you are a 
devilish clever fellow with your hands and Moropulos 
mentioned something about a safe. You are not making 
it?” 

Sault nodded and there was a gleam in his fine eyes. 

“But why? Moropulos has a safe and Steppe must 
possess dozens. Why not buy another, if he must have a 
special place for these wretched things?” 

“You cannot buy the safe that I shall make,” said the 
dark man quietly. “ It has taken me a year to invent the 
dial — eh? Yes, combination. They are easy, but not this 
one. A word will open it, any other word, any other 
combination of letters, and there will be nothing to find,” 

The doctor frowned. 


14 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“You mean if any other person — the police for example, 
try to open the safe the contents are destroyed?” 

Sault nodded. 

“ How?” 

The visitor, his business at an end, rose. 

“That is simple, a twist of the hand, unless the combi- 
nation is true, releases a quart of acid, any of the corrosive 
acids will serve.” 

Merville bent his head in thought. Presently he saw a 
flaw in the invention. “ Suppose they don’t touch the 
lock?” he asked. “Suppose they burn out the side of the 
safe — it can be done, I believe — what then?” 

Ambrose Sault gave that soft laugh of his. “The sides 
will be hollow, and filled from the inside of the safe, with 
water pumped in at a pressure. Cut through the safe, and 
the water escapes and releases a plunger that brings about 
the same result — the contents of the safe are destroyed.” 

“You are a strange creature — the strangest I have met. 
I don’t understand you,” Merville shook his head. “ I hope 
you will hurry with that safe.” As Sault was at the door 
he asked: “Where did Moropulos find you, Sault?” 

The man turned. “He found me in the sea,” he said. 
“Moropulos was trading in those days. He had a sloop 
— pearl smuggling, I think. I thought he had told you. I 
never make any secret about it.” 

“In the sea — for heavens sake what do you mean? 
Where?” 

“Ten miles oflf the Isle of Pines. I got away from 
Noumea in a boat. Noumea is the capital of New Cale- 
donia. I and three Canaques — they were under sentence 
for cannibalism. We ran into a cyclone and swamped, just 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


15 


as we were trying to make the sloop which was standing in to 
the lee of the island. Moropulos took me on board and the 
natives; when he found that I was a convict — ” 

“A convict — a French convict!” 

Sauk was leaning easily, his cheek against the hand that 
gripped the edge of the open door. He nodded. “ I 
thought he had told you. Of course, he would have taken 
me back to Noumea for the reward, only he had a cargo on 
board which he did not want the French to see. I found 
afterwards that when we called at the Loyalty Island, he 
tried to sell me back, but couldn’t get a price.” 

He smiled broadly as at a very pleasant recollection, 
“ Moropulos would sell me now,” he said, “ only I am 
useful.” 

“But why — why were you imprisoned?” asked Mer- 
ville, awe-stricken at the tremendous revelation. 

“ I killed a man,” said Sault. “ Good night, doctor.” 


Ill 


It was a Monday morning and a bank holiday. A few 
regular habituees of the park to whom the word “ holiday ” 
had no especial significance, had overlooked the fact and 
took their cantering exercise a little selfconsciously under 
admiring eyes of the people who seldom saw people riding 
on horseback for the pleasure of it. The day was fine and 
warm, the hawthorn trees were thickly frosted with their 
cerise and white blossoms; stiff crocuses flamed in every 
bed and the banners of the daffodils fluttered in the light 
breeze that blew halfheartedly across the wide green spaces. 
On every path the holiday-makers straggled, small mothers 
laden with large babies; shopboys in garments secretly mod- 
elled on the supermen they served; girls from the stores 
in their bargain-price finery; young men with and without 
hats, the waitresses of closed teashops, and here and there 
a pompous member of the bourgeoisie conscious of his 
superiority to the crowd with which, in his condescension, 
he mingled. 

There is one shady place which faces Park Lane — a 
stretch of wooded lawn where garden chairs are set six 
deep. Behind this phalanx there is an irregular fringe of 
seats, usually in couples, and greatly in request during the 
darker hours. In the early morning, before the energies of 
the promenaders are exhausted, the spot is deserted. But 
two young people occupied chairs this morning. There 
was nothing in the appearance of the girl that would have 
16 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


17 


made the companionship seem incongruous. In her tailored 
costume, the unobtrusive hat and the simplicity of her 
toilette, she might as well have been the youngest daughter 
of a duke or a workgirl with a judgment in dress. Her 
clothes would not be “ priced ” by the most expert of 
women critics and even stockings and shoes, the last hope 
of the appraiser, would have baffled. No two glances would 
have been required to put the man in his class. If he was a 
thought dandified, it was the dandification of a gentleman. 
He looked what he was, a man of leisure; the type which is 
to be found in the Guards or the smartest regiment of cav- 
alry. Yet Ronald Morelle was no soldier. He had served 
during the war, but had seen none of its devastations. He 
hated the violence of battle and despised the vulgarity of 
noisy patriotism. His knowledge of Italian had secured 
him a quasi-diplomatic appointment, nominally at the 
Italian headquarters, actually in Rome. He had used every 
influence that could be employed, pulled every string that 
could be pulled, to keep him from the disorder of the front 
line, and fortune had favored him to an extraordinary 
extent. On the very day he received instructions to report 
to the regiment with which he had trained, the armistice 
was signed — he saw the last line of trenches which the 
British had prepared but never occupied, south of Amiens, 
saw them from the train that carried him home, and thought 
that they looked beastly uncomfortable. 

The girl by his side would not be alone in thinking him 
good-looking. He was that rarity, a perfectly featured man. 
His skin was faultless; his straight nose, his deep-set brown 
eyes, his irreproachable mouth, were excellent. The hyper- 
critical might cavil at the almost feminine chin. A small 


18 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


brown moustache was probably responsible for the illusion 
that he favored the profession of arms. 

Evie Colebrook thought he was the most beautiful man 
in the world, and when he smiled, as he was smiling now, 
she dared not look at him. He was talking about looks, 
and she was deliciously flattered. “How ridiculous you 
are, Mr. Morelle,” she protested, “ I suppose you have said 
that to thousands and thousands of girls?” 

“ Not quite so many, Evie,” he answered. “ To be exact, 
I can’t remember having been so shamelessly complimen- 
tary to any girl before. You need not call me ‘ Mr. Morelle ’ 
unless you wish to — my friends call me ‘Ronnie’.” 

She played with the handkerchief on her lap. “ It seems 
so familiar. Honestly, Ronnie, aren’t you rather — what 
is the word? The hook you lent me — a play?” 

“A philanderer?” suggested the other. “My dear child, 
how silly you are. Of course I’m not. Very few people 
have impressed me as you have. It must have been fate that 
took me into Burts — I never go into shops, but Frangois 
— that’s my man — ” 

“ I know him,” she nodded, “ he often comes in. I used to 
wonder who he was.” 

“He was out and I w^ted — I forget what it was I 
wanted, even forget whether I bought it. I must have done, 
otherwise I should not have found myself staring over a 
paydesk at the most lovely girl in all the world.” 

She laughed, a gurgling laugh of sheer happiness, and 
looked at him swiftly before she dropped her eyes again. 

“ I like to hear that,”she said softly. “ It is so wonder- 
ful — that you like me, I mean. Because I’m nothing, 
really. And you, you’re a — well, gentleman. I know you 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


19 


hate the word, but you are. Miles and miles above me. 
Why, I live in a miserable little house in a horrible neigh- 
borhood — full of thieves and terrible creatures who drink. 
And my mother does odd jobs for people. And I’m not 
very well educated — really. I can read and write, but 
I’m not half so clever as Christina, that is my sister. She’s 
an invalid and reads all day and all night too, if I’d let 
her.” 

He was watching her as she spoke. The play of color 
in her pretty face, the rise and fall of her narrow chest, 
the curve of chin and the velvet smoothness of her throat 
— he marked them all with the eye of the gourmet who 
watches lambs frisking in the pasture and sees, not the 
poetry and beauty of young life, but a likeable dish that 
will one day mature. “If you were a beggar-maid and I 
were a prince” — he began. 

“I’m not much better, am I?” she asked ruefully, “and 
you are a prince, to me, Ronnie — ” She was thinking. 

“Yes?” 

“How can anything come right for us? I don’t want 
to think about it and I try ever so hard to keep it out of 
my thoughts. I’m so happy — meeting you — and loving 
you — and tomorrow never comes, but — ” 

“You mean how will this dear friendship end?” She 
nodded. 

“How would you like it to end?” 

Evie Colebrook poked the furrel of her sunshade into 
the grass and turned up a tuft of clover. “There is only 
one way it can ever end — happily,” she said in a low voice, 
“and that is — well you know, Ronnie.” 

He laughed. “ With you in a beautiful white dress and a 


20 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


beautiful white veil and a wreath of orange blossoms round 
your glorious hair, and a fat and nasty old man in a sur- 
plice reading a few passages from a book; and people leer- 
ing at you as you go down the aisle and saying — well, you 
know what they say. I think a wedding is the most indeli- 
cate function which society affects.” 

She said nothing, but continued prodding at the turf. “ It 
can be done quietly,” she said at last. 

Leaning toward her, he slipped his hand under her arm. 
“Evie, is love nothing?” he asked earnestly, “isn’t it the 
biggest thing? What is the most decent, a wedding between 
two people who halfhate one another, but are marrying 
because one wants money and the other a swagger wife, or 
an everlasting love union between a man and a woman 
whom God has bound with bonds that a parson cannot 
strengthen or a snuffy judge cannot break?” 

She sighed, the quick, double sigh of one half convinced. 

“You make me feel that I’m common and — and brain- 
less, and anyway, I don’t want to talk about it. Ronnie, 
I suppose you’re awfully busy this morning?” She looked 
wistfully at the big Rolls that was drawn up by the side of 
the road. 

“ I am rather,” he said, “ I wish I weren’t. I’d love to 
drive you somewhere — anywhere so long as you were by 
my side, little fairy. When shall I see you again?” 

“On Sunday?” she asked as they strolled toward the car. 

“ Why not come up to the flat to tea on Saturday after- 
noon?” he suggested, but she shook her head. 

“I’d rather not, Ronnie — do you mind? I — well, I 
don’t want to somehow. Am I an awful pig?” 

He smiled down on her. “Of course not — oh, damn!” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


21 


A girl on a horse had just cantered past. She saw him 
and lifted her whip to acknowledge his raised hat. 

“Who is that?” Evie was more than curious. 

“A girl I know,” he said suavely. “The daughter of 
my doctor, and rather a gossip.” 

“ You’re ashamed of being seen with me.” 

“Rubbish!” he laughed. “I am so proud of you that 
I wish she had stopped, confound her!” He took her hand 
and smiled into her eyes. “ Goodbye, beloved,” he breathed. 

Evie Colebrook watched the car until it had turned out of 
sight. It was following the gossiping girl, but she did not 
care. She went home walking on air. 

At the corner of the Row, the big car drew abreast of the 
rider. “Why on earth are you riding on Bank Holiday, 
Beryl — the park is full of louts, and there aren’t half-a- 
dozen people in the Row!” 

Beryl Merville looked at him quizzically. “ And why on 
earth are you in the park, Ronnie; and who was your beau- 
tiful little friend?” 

He frowned. “Friend? Oh, you mean the girl I was 
speaking to? Would you call her beautiful — yes, I sup- 
pose she is pretty, but quite a kid. Her father is an old 
friend of mine — colonel — I forget his name, he is some- 
thing at the War Office. I have an idea they live near the 
park. I saw her walking and stopped the car to talk to her. 
Frankly I was so bored that I almost fell on her neck. I 
wasn’t with her for five minutes.” 

Beryl nodded and dismissed the matter from her mind. 
She was more interested in another subject. 

“Yes, dear, I had your letter. I’m an awful brute not to 
have come over and seen you. But the fact is, I have been 


22 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


working hard. Don’t sneer, Beryl. I really have. Stur- 
geon, tlie editor of the Post-Herald, has discovered in me 
a latent genius for writing. It is rather fun — apparently 
I have a flair for that kind of work.” 

“ But, Ronnie, this is great news ! Stop your car by the 
corner and find a man to hold my horse — there is an awful 
lot I want to talk to you about.” 

He parked his car and, helping her dismount, handed the 
reins to an idle groom. A watchful attendant drew near. 

“ You will have to pay for the seats, Ronnie, I have no 
money.” 

“Happily I have two tickets,” he said and realized his 
mistake before he drew them from his pocket. 

“ I thought you hadn’t been with your colonel’s daughter 
more than five minutes?” she challenged and laughed, “I 
sometimes think that you’d rather lie than eat!” 

“ My dear Beryl,” Mr. Morelle’s tone revealed both 
shock and injury. “ Did I say that I didn’t sit with her? I 
couldn’t be so uncivil as to expect her to stand. The fact 
is, that she hinted that she would like me to drive her round 
the park and I had no wish to.” 

“Never mind your guilty secret,” she said gaily, “tell 
me all about your new job. Poor Ronnie, so they have 
made you work at last! I feared this.” 

Ronnie smiled good-naturedly. “ It is amusing,” he said. 
“ I was always rather keen on that kind of work, even when 
I was at Oxford. Sturgeon saw some verses of mine in one 
of the quarterlies and asked me if I would care to describe 
a motor-car race — the Gordon Bennett cup. I took it on 
and he seemed immensely pleased with the account I wrote. 
I feel that I am doing some poor devil out of a job, but — ” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


23 


“But it doesn’t keep you awake at nights,” she finished. 
“ But how lovely, Ronald. You will be able to describe Mr. 
Steppe’s trial — everybody says that one of these days he 
will be tried — ” 

Ronald Morelle was not amused. She saw a frown 
gather on his forehead and remembered that he and Mr. 
Steppe had some association. 

“Of course I’m joking, Ronnie. How awfully touchy 
you are! Mr. Steppe is quite nice, and people invariably 
say unpleasant things about a successful man.” 

“ Steppe — ” he paused. There was a nervousness in his 
manner and in his tone which he could not disguise. 
“ Steppe is quite a good fellow. A little rough, but he was 
trained in a rough school. He is very nearly the cleverest 
financier in this country or any other.” He would have 
changed the conversation had she not interpolated a 
question. 

“I do not know him — Sault you said? No, I’ve never 
met him. He does odd jobs for Moropulos. A half-caste, 
isn’t he? What nerve the fellow had to come to the house! 
Why didn’t you kick him out?” 

“ It is obvious that you haven’t seen him or you wouldn’t 
ask such a question,” she replied, her eyes twinkling. 

“ I don’t know what he does,” Ronnie went on. “ Steppe 
has a good opinion of him. That is all I knov. He has 
three decorations for something he did in the war. He was 
in the Field Ambulance and brought in a lot of people from 
No Man’s Land. He is quite old, isn’t he?” 

She nodded. “ Moropulos isn’t anything to boast about. 
Steppe likes him, though.” Apparently the cachet of Mr. 
Steppe satisfied Ronnie in all things. “He’s a Greek — 


24 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


you’ve met him? A sleek devil. They say that he’s afraid 
except when he is drunk.” 

“Ronnie!” 

“ A fact. Moropulos drinks like a fish. Absinthe and all 
sorts of stuff. Steppe told me. That is why this nigger 
fellow Sault is useful. Sault is the only man who can 
handle him. He’s as strong as an ox. There isn’t a smarter 
devil than Moropulos. He has the brain of a cabinet minister, 
and is as close as an oyster. But when the fit is on him he’d 
stand up in the street and talk himself into gaol. And 
others — not Steppe, of course,” he added hastily, “ Steppe 
has nothing to be afraid of, only — well, Moropulos might 
say things that would look bad.” 

“And is that all?” she asked with an odd sense of dis- 
appointment. “ Doesn’t Mr. Sault do anything else but act 
as a sort of keeper?” 

Ronnie, already weary of the subject, yawned behind his 
hand. “Awfully sorry, but I was up late last night. Sault?. 
Oh, yes, I believe he does odd jobs. He is rather an ugly 
brute, isn’t he?” 

She did not answer this. Her interest in the man puzzled 
her. He appealed in a strange fashion to something within 
her that was very wholesome. She was glad, very glad, 
about his war decorations. That he should have done fine 
things — she liked to forget Ronnie’s war services. 

“ I wish I had decided to ride this morning,” complained 
Ronnie. “ 1 never dreamed you would be out on a day like 
this. Why I came into the park at all I really do not know. 
I didn’t realize it was a bank holiday and that all these 
dreadful people would be unchained for the day. How is 
the doctor — well?” She nodded. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


25 


‘^He looked a little peaked when I saw him last. Look, 
Beryl — Steppe!” A car, headed for Marble Arch, had 
swerved across the road in response to the signal of its occu- 
pant. It pulled up behind Ronald’s machine and Mr. 
Steppe, with his queer sideways smile, alighted, waving a 
white-gloved hand. 

“ Oh, dear,” said Beryl plaintively, “ why did I get off 
that horse? I could have pretended that I had not recog- 
nized him.” 

“My dear girl!” 

Ronald was genuinely distressed and it came to Beryl 
in the nature of an unpleasant discovery that he was so 
completely in awe of the financier, that his manner, his 
attitude, the very tone of his voice, changed at the sight of 
him. And Steppe seemed to expect this homage, took it 
as his right, dismissed and obliterated Ronnie from partici- 
pation with a jerk of his head intended as an acknowledg- 
ment of his greeting and as an excusal of his presence. 

Beryl could not help realizing his unimportance in the 
millionaire’s scheme of life. 

The photographs of Jan Steppe which have from time to 
time appeared in the public press, at once flatter and dis- 
parage him. The lens has depicted faithfully the short black 
beard, the thick black eyebrows, the broad nose and the 
thick bull neck of him. They missed his immense vitality, 
the aura of power which enveloped him, his dominant and 
forceful ego. His voice was thick and deep, sometimes in 
a moment of excitement guttural, for his grandfather had 
been a Transvaal Boer, a hyworner who had become, succes- 
sively, farmer and mine owner. Jan Cornelius Steppe, the 
first, had spoken no English; his son Commandant Steppe, 


26 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


an enlightened and scholarly man, spoke it well. He had 
been killed at Tugela Drift in the war, whilst Jan the third 
was in England at a preparation school. 

“Huh! Beryl! Very good luck, huh? I shall miss 
my train but it is worth while. Riding? God! I wish I 
wasn’t so fat and lazy. Motor cars are the ruin of us. My 
grandfather rode twenty miles a day and my father was 
never off a horse. Huh!” 

Beryl often asked her father why Mr. Steppe grunted 
at the end of his every question. But it was not a grunt. 
It was a throaty growl cut short, a terrifying mannerism of 
his, meaningless hut menacing. She used to wonder 
whether the impression of ruthless ferocity which he gave, 
was not more than half due to this pecularity. He towered 
^above her, a mountain of a man, broad of shoulder and 
long of arm. There was something simian about him, some- 
thing that was almost obscene. He was fond of describing 
himself as fat, but this was an exaggeration. He had bulk, 
he was in the truest sense gross, but she would not have 
described him as fat. 

“ Sit down,” he commanded, “ I haven’t seen you since 
Friday. The doctor came in yesterday morning. Nerves, 
huh? What’s the matter with him?” 

Beryl laughed. “ Father receives a great deal of mis- 
placed sympathy. He is really very well. He has been 
jumpy ever since I can remember.” 

Steppe nodded. He was sitting by her side in the chair 
vacated by Ronnie, and Ronnie was standing. 

“ Sit down, Ronnie,” she pointed to a chair at the other 
side of her. 

“No-no thank you, Beryl,” he said hastily, for all the 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


27 


world like a schoolboy asked to sit in the presence of his 
master. 

“ Sit down/’ growled Steppe, and to the girl’s amazement, 
Ronnie sat. It was the only notice Jan Steppe took of his 
presence throughout the interview, and Ronnie neither 
showed resentment nor made the slighest attempt to in- 
trude into the conversation that followed. 

Presently Steppe looked at his watch. “ I can catch that 
train,” he said, and got up. “ You’re coming to dinner with 
me next week — I’ll fix the date with the doctor.” She said 
she would be delighted. Something of the mastership ex- 
tended to her. 

“You saw Sault?” He turned back after he had taken 
her hand. “Queer fellow, huh? Big man, huh?” 

“I thought he was — interesting,” she admitted. 

“Yes — interesting. A man.” He glowered at Ronald 
Morelle. “ Interesting,” he repeated, and went away with 
that. Her fascinated gaze followed him as he strode toward 
the car. “Paddington — get me there, damn you,” she 
heard him say, and when the car had gone — 

“ Dynamic,” she said with a sigh. “ He is like a power 
house. When I shake hands with him, I feel as though I’m 
going to get a bad burn! You were very silent, Ronnie?” 

“Yes — ” absently. “Old Steppe is rather a shocker, 
isn’t he? How did he know you had seen Sault?” 

“Father told him, I suppose. Ronnie, are you afraid, of 
Mr. Steppe?” 

He colored. “Afraid? How stupid you are. Beryl! Whj 
should I be afraid of him? He’s — well, I do business 
with him. I am a director of a company or two, he put 
me into them. One has to — how shall I put it? One has 


28 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


to be polite to these people. I’ll go along now, Beryl — lot 
of work to do.” 

He was uncomfortable, and she did not pursue the subject. 
The knowledge brought a little ache to her heart — that 
Ronnie was afraid of Jan Steppe! She would have given 
her soul to respect Ronald Morelle as she respected the | 
swarthy gray-haired man whom even Steppe respected, | 


IV 


“ Children,” said Mrs. Colebrook peering into the sauce- 
pan that huhhled and splashed and steamed on the kitchen 
fire, “ are a great responsibility — especially in this neigh- 
borhood where, as you might say, there is nothing but 
raffle.” 

Sometime in her youth, it is probable that Mrs. Cole- 
brook had to choose between “ rabble ” and “ riff-raff ” and 
had found a compromise. 

“ That man Starker who lives up the street. Number 39, I 
think it is — no maybe it’s 37 — it is the house before the 
sweep’s. Well, I did think he was all right, geraniums in 
his window too, and canaries. A very homely man, would- 
n’t say boo to a goose. He got nine months this morning.” 

Ambrose Sault, sitting in a wooden chair which was 
wedged tightly between the kitchen table and the dresser, 
drummed his fingers absently upon the polished cloth table- 
cover and nodded. His dark sallow face wore an expres- 
sion of strained interest. 

“Evie — well I’m worried about Evie. She sits and 
broods — there’s no other word for it — by the hour, and 
she used to be such a bright, cheerful girl. I wonder some- 
times if it is through her working at the drug stores. Being 
attached to medicines in a manner of speaking, you’re 
bound to hear awful stories — people’s insides and all that 
sort of thing. It is depressing for a young girl. Christina 
29 


30 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


says she talks in her sleep and moans and tosses about. It 
can’t be over a young man, or she’d bring him home. I 
asked her the other day — I think a girl’s best friend is her 
mother — and all I got was, ‘ Oh shut up, mother ’. In my 
young days I wouldn’t have dared speak to my mother like 
that, but girls have changed. They want to go to business, 
cashiering and typewriting, and such nonsense. I went out 
to service when I was sixteen and was first parlormaid 
before I was twenty. But talk to these girls about going 
into domestic service and they laugh at you.” A silence 
followed which Sault felt it was his duty to break. 

“ I suppose they do. Life is very hard on women, even 
the most favored of women. I hardly blame them for get- 
ting whatever happiness they can.” 

“Happiness!” scoffed Mrs. Colebrook, shifting the sauce- 
pan to the hob, “it all depends on what you call ‘happi- 
ness ’. I don’t see much happiness in standing in a draughty 
shop taking money all day and adding up figures and 
stamping bills! Besides, look at the temptation. She 
meets all kind of people — ” 

“ I think I’ll go upstairs to my room, Mrs. Colebrook. 
I want to do a little work.” 

“ You’re a worker,” said Mrs. Colebrook admiringly, “ I’ll 
call you when supper is ready.” 

“May I walk in to see Christina?” He asked permission 
in the same words every night and received the same answer. 

“ Of course you can ; you need never ask, Mr. Sault. 
She’ll be glad to see you.” 

At the head of the narrow stairway Sault knocked on a 
door and a cheerful voice bade him come in. It was a small 
room containing two beds. That which was nearest the win- 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


31 


dow was occupied by a girl whose pallor was made more 
strangely apparent by a mop of bright red hair. Over her 
head, and hooked to the wall, was a kerosene lamp of un- 
usual design and brilliance. She had been reading and one 
white hand lay over the open page of a book by her side. 
Sault looked up at the lamp, touched the button that con- 
trolled the light and peered into the flame. 

“Working all right?” 

“Fine,” she said enthusiastically, “You’re a brick, Am- 
brose, to make it. I had no idea you could do anything like 
that. Mother won’t touch it; ihe thinks it will explode.” 

“ It can’t explode,” he said, shaking his head. “ Those 
vapor gas lamps are safe, unless you fool with them. Have 
it put outside the door in the morning and I’ll fill it. Well, 
where have you been today, Christina?” 

She showed her small white teeth in a smile. “To 
Etruria,” she said solemnly. “It is the country that was 
old when Rome was young. I went on an exploring expe- 
dition. We left Croydon Aerodrome by airplane and stayed 
overnight in Paris. My fiance is a French marquis and 
we stayed at his place in the Avenue Kleber. The next morn- 
ing we went by special train to Rome. I visited the Coli- 
seum by car and saw the temples and the ruins. I spent 
another day at the Vatican and St. Peter’s and saw the pope. 
Then we went on to Volsinii and Tarquinii and I found a 
wonderful old tomb full of glorious Etruscan ware plates 
and amporas and vases. They must have been worth millions. 
There we met a magician. He lived in an old, ruined house 
on the side of the hill. He had a flock of goats and gave us 
milk. It was magic milk, for suddenly we found ourselves 
in the midst of an enormous marble city full of beautiful 


32 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


men and women in togas and wonderful robes. The streets 
were filled with rich chariots drawn by little horses. The 
chariots shone like gold and were covered with figures of 
lions and hunters, and trees and scrolls — wonderful ! And 
the gardens! They were beautiful. Flowers of every kind, 
heliotrope and roses and big, white trumpet lilies and the 
marble houses were covered with wisteria — oh dear!” 

“Etruria?” repeated Sault thoughtfully. “Older than 
Rome? Of course, there must have been — people before 
the Romans, the sort of ancient Britons of Rome — ” 

Her eyes, fixed on his, were gleaming with merriment. 
“ Of course. I told you about the marvelous trip I had to 
China? When I was the lovely concubine of Yang-Kuei-Fee? 
And how the eunuchs strangled me? That was long after 
Rome, but China was two thousand years old then.” 

“ I remember,” he said soberly, “ you went to China once 

before then ” His glance fell on the pages of the book 

and he picked it up, turning its meaningless leaves. 

“ It is all about Etruria,” she said. “ Evie borrowed it 
from the store. They have a circulating library at the store. 
Have you seen Evie?” 

He shook his head. “ Not for weeks,” he said, “ I am 
usually in my room when she comes home.” 

Christina Colebrook, invalid and visionary, puckered her 
smooth brows into a frown. She had emerged from her 
world of dreams and make-believe and was facing the 
ugliness of life that eddied about her bed. 

“ Evie is changed quite a lot,” she said. “ She is quieter 
and dresses more carefully. Not in the way you would 
notice, she always had good taste, but especially in the 
way of underclothes. All girls adore swagger under- 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


33 


clothes. They live in dread that one day they will be 
knocked down by a motor-bus and taken to a hospital wear- 
ing a shabby camisole! But Evie — she’s collecting all 
sorts of things. You might think she was getting together 
a trousseau. Has she ever spoken to you about anybody 
called ‘Ronnie’?” 

“No — she never speaks to me,” said Ambrose. 

“You know nobody called Ronnie?” 

He signified his ignorance. At the moment he did not 
associate the name. 

“ She talks in her sleep,” Christina went on slowly, 
“ and she’s spoken that name lots of times. I haven’t told 
mother; what would be the good, with her heart as it is? 
‘ Ronnie ’ is the man who is worrying her. I think she is 
in love with him, or what she thinks is love. And he is 
somebody in a good station of life, because once she called 
out in the middle of the night, ‘Ronnie, take me in your 
car.’ ” 

Sault was silent. This was the first time Christina had 
ever spoken to him about the girl. 

“There is only one thing that can happen,” said she 
wisely, “ and that would break mother’s heart. Mother has 
very narrow views. The people of our class have. I should 
feel that way myself if I hadn’t seen the world,” she patted 
the book by her side, “ perhaps mother’s view is right. She 
is respectable and the old Roman Emperor Constantine, 
when he classified the nobility, made the ‘ respectable ’ 
much superior to the ‘honorable’.” 

“What do you mean — about Evie?” 

“ I mean that she’ll come to me one night and tell me 
that she is in trouble. And then I shall have to get mother 


34 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


into a philosophical mood and try to make her see that it 
is better for a child to be illegitimate than not to be born 
at all.” 

“Good gracious!” said Ambrose, startled. “But it may 
be — just a friendship.” 

“Rats!” said Christina contemptuously. “Friendships 
between attractive shop girls and well-to-do young men! 
IVe heard about ’em — platonic. Have you ever heard of 
Archianassa? She was Plato’s mistress. He didn’t even 
practice the kind of love that is named after him. Evie is 
a good girl and has really fine principles. I shock her 
awfully at times, I wish I didn’t. I don’t mean I wish I 
didn’t say things that make her shocked, but that she 
wouldn’t be shocked at all. You have to have a funny kink 
in your mind before you take offense at the woman and 
man facts. If you blush easily, you fall easily. I wish 
to God Evie wasn’t so pretty. And she’s a dear, too, 
Ambrose. She has great schemes for getting me away to 
a country where my peculiar ailment will dissolve under 
uninterrupted sunlight. Poor darling! It would be better 
if she thought more of her own dangerous sickness.” 

“ Ronald Morelle,” said Ambrose suddenly, “ but it 
wouldn’t be he.” 

“Who is Ronald Morelle?” 

“ He is the only Ronald I know. I don’t even know him. 
He’s a friend of a — a friend of mine.” 

“Rich — where does he live?” 

“ In Knightsbridge somewhere.” 

Christina whistled. “Glory be! Evie’s shop is in 
Knightsbridge!” 

At eleven o’clock that night Evie Colebrook came into 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


35 


the room, and, as she stooped over the bed to kiss her 
sister, Christina saw something. 

“You’ve been crying, Evie.” 

Evie turned away quickly and began to unfasten her 
skirt. “I — I twisted my ankle — slipped off the side- 
walk — I was a baby to cry!” 

Christina watched her as she undressed rapidly. “You 
haven’t said your prayers, Evie.” 

“ Damn my prayers I ” There was a little choke at the 
end. “ Put out the light, Christina, I’m awfully tired.” 

Christina reached up for the dangling chain that Ambrose 
Sault had fixed to the lamp, but she did not immediately 
pull it. “Mr. Sault was talking about people he knew 
tonight,” she said carelessly. “ Have you ever heard of 
a man called Ronald Morelle?” There was no answer, 
then. 

“ Good-night, Christina.” 

Christina pulled the chain and the light went out. 


V 


Beryl Merville told herself, at least once a day, that 
the average girl did not give two thoughts about the source 
of her father’s income. In her case, there was less reason 
why she should trouble her head. 

Dr. Merville had retired from practice four years before. 
In his time, he was what is loosely described as “ a fashion- 
able physician,” and certainly was regarded as one of the 
first authorities of cardiac diseases in the country. His 
practice, as a consultant, was an extensive one, and his fees 
were exceptionally high, even for a fashionable physician. 
When he retired he was indubitably a rich man. He sold 
his house in Devonshire Street and bought a more preten- 
tious home in Park Place, but — the zest for speculation, 
repressed during the time he was following his profession, 
had occupied the hours of leisure which retirement brought 
to him. An active man, well under sixty, the emptiness of 
his days, after he had turned over his work, filled him 
with dismay. He had broken violently from the routine 
of twenty-five years and found time the heaviest of the 
burdens he had ever carried. He tried to find interests 
and failed. He was under an agreement to the doctor who 
had purchased his practice not to return to his profession, 
or he would have been back in Devonshire Street a month 
after he had left. He bought a few thoroughbreds and sent 
them to a trainer, but he had no love for the turf and, 
36 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


37 


although he won a few respectable stakes, he quitted the 
game at the end of the first season. 

Then he tried the stock market, made a few thousands 
in oil and grew more interested. A rubber speculation 
hurt him, but not so much that his enthusiasm was damped 
or his bank balance was seriously affected. He followed 
this loss with what might have been a disastrous invest- 
ment in South African Mines. Then, at a nerve-racking 
moment, came Steppe, who held up the market and let out 
Merville, bruised and shaken, but not ruinously so. Here 
might have ended the speculative career of Dr. Merville, 
had he not been under an obligation to the South African. 
Within a month of their meeting, the doctor’s name ap- 
peared on the prospectus of one of Steppe’s companies — 
a mild and unromantic cold storage flotation which was a 
success in every sense. Merville had many friends in 
society; people who might look askance at the name of 
Jan Steppe, and be disturbed by the recollection of certain 
other companies which that gentleman had floated, accepted 
Dr. Merville’s directorship as evidence of the company’s 
stability and financial soundness. The issue was over- 
subscribed and paid a dividend from the first year. 

This object lesson was not lost upon the big man. He 
followed the promotion with another. The East Rand 
Consolidated Deep was floated for three-quarters of a 
million. Applications came in for two millions. Dr. 
Merville was chairman of the board. Even Jan Steppe was 
surprised. Large as was the circle of Merville’s acquaint- 
ances, neither his personal popularity nor his standing as 
a financial authority could account for this overwhelming 
success. Merville himself discounted his own influence, 


38 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


not realizing that in the twenty-five years of professional 
life, he had built up a national reputation. His name had 
been a household word since his treatment of a foreign 
royalty whose case had been regarded by native physicians 
as hopeless. This may not have been a complete explana- 
tion; probably the fact that the stock in the cold storage 
company stood at a premium had something to do with 
the rush for Consolidated Deeps. 

The new company did not pay dividends, but long before 
the first was due, Mr. Steppe had launched two others. On 
paper Dr. Merville made a fortune; actually, he acquired 
heavy liabilities, not the least of which was his heavy 
participation in a private flotation which Mr. Steppe, with 
unconscious humor, labeled: “The Investment Salvage 
Syndicate.” It was a stockholding company and in the 
main it held such stock as a general public declined to 
purchase. There are rules of behavior which normal 
people do not transgress. A gentleman does not search 
the overcoat pockets of his fellow clubmen, and confiscate 
such valuables as he may find; nor does he steal into the 
houses of people he does not know and remove their silver. 
A corporation man has a less rigid code. Dr. Merville 
found himself consciously assisting in the manipulation of 
a stock, a manipulation which could only be intended to 
deprive stockholders of their legitimate rights. There was 
one unpleasant moment of doubt and shame when Merville 
sought to disentangle his individuality from this corporative 
existence. He tried to think singly, applying the tests 
which had governed his life — he found it easier to divide 
his responsibility. 

Somehow he felt less venal when only a fourteenth of 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


39 


the blame attached to him. This fraction represented his 
holding in Consolidated Deeps. Wealth is an effective 
narcotic. Rich and fearless men can find a melancholy 
pleasure in the contemplation of their past sins. But 
poverty and the danger of poverty acts as a microphone 
through the medium of which the still small voice of con- 
science is a savage roar. 

Beryl thought he was unusually nervous when she went 
to find him in his study. He started at the sound of her 
voice. 

“Ready — yes, dear. What time did Steppe say?” 

“Eight o’clock. We have plenty of time, father — the 
car isn’t here yet. Do you know whether Ronnie will be 
there?” 

Dr. Merville was looking abstractedly at her; his mind, 
she knew, was very far away. “Ronnie? I don’t know. 
John Maxton will be there. I saw him today. Steppe 
admires him and John is clever; he will be a judge one of 
these days. Yes — a judge.” The little grimace he made 
was involuntary. 

“ One would think you expected to meet him in his 
official capacity,” she laughed. 

“Absurd of course — as to Ronnie? How do you feel 
about him. Beryl?” The maid tapped at the door to say 
the car had arrived. 

Beryl answered : “ Do you mean — I don’t quite know 
what you do mean?” 

“About the scandal. Do you remember a man who 
came to see you — • why he should have come to you I don’t 
know — with a story about his sister?” 

“East was the name. Yes, Ronnie told me all about it. 


40 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


The man is a blackmailer and his sister was not much 
better. Ronnie had shown a kindness to the girl, he met 
her at some — some mission or other. Ronnie does queer 
things like that — and he gave her some money to go on a 
holiday. That was all.” 

“ Humph — ready? ” 

“But, daddy, don’t you believe Ronnie?” She was des- 
perately anxious to consolidate her own faith. 

“ I don’t know. Ronnie is a queer fellow — ” 

He was ready to go; his overcoat was over his arm and 
yet he lingered. She guessed he would say something more 
about Ronald Morelle and was stiffening to defend him, 
but she was mistaken. 

“Beryl, you are twenty-two and very beautiful. I may 
be biased but I hardly think I am. I have seen many 
lovely women in my life and you could hold your own with 
any of them. Do you ever think of getting married?” 

She tried hard to control herself, but the color in her 
face deepened and faded. 

“ I haven’t thought much about it,” she said. “ There 
are two parties to a marriage, daddy.” 

“Are you fond of anybody? I mean are you, in your 
heart — committed to any one man?” 

A pause, then: “No.” 

“I’m glad,” said her father, relieved. “Very glad — 
you must look for something in a man which fellows like 
Ronnie Morelle can never give to a woman — power, for- 
tune, mental strength and stability — come along.” 

She followed him to the car dumb with astonishment, 
but not at that moment apprehensive. She knew that he 
had been talking of Jan Steppe. 


VI 


Mr. Steppe had a house in Berkeley Square which Ik 
rented from its lordly owner. Beryl had dined there 
before, and it had been a baffling experience, for in no 
respect did the personality of the tenant find an opportunity 
of expressing itself. The furnishings and the color schemes 
of the landlord had been left as they had been found, and 
since the atmosphere of the place was late Victorian, Mr. 
Steppe was unconformable to his surroundings. 

Beryl thought of him as a Sultan amidst samplers. 

Sir John Maxton was talking to him when they were 
announced. One of the greatest advocates at the bar, 
Maxton was tall, slender, esthetic. His gentle manner had 
led many a confident witness into trouble. He had a repu- 
tation at the bar as a just and merciless man; a master of 
the art of cross-examination. 

“The doctor told me you were likely to be here,” he 
said, when she had escaped from Steppe’s thunderous 
civilities. “I hoped Ronnie would have come — have you 
seen him lately?” 

“ Only for a few minutes on Monday. I met him in the 
park. I didn’t know you were a friend of his. Sir John?” 
Maxton ’s lips curled. Beryl wondered if he was trying to 
smile, or whether that twitch indicated something uncom- 
plimentary to Ronnie. 

“I’m more than a friend — and less. I was one of the 

41 


42 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


executors of his father’s will. Old Bennett Morelle was 
my first client and I suppose I stand in loco parentis to 
Ronnie by virtue of my executorship. I have not seen him 
for quite a year. Somebody told me that he was scribbling! 
He always had a bent that jvay — it is a thousand pities 
he didn’t take the law seriously — an occupation would 
have kept him out of mischief.” 

“Has Ronnie been called to the bar?” she asked in 
astonishment. Maxton nodded. 

“Just before the war, hut he has never practiced. I 
hope that the newspaper connection will keep him busy.” 

“But Ronnie works very hard,” she asserted stoutly. 
“ He has his company work, he is a director of several 
and chairman of one I believe.” Maxton looked at her 
with the faintest shade of amusement in his eyes. 

“Of course,” he said drily, “that is an occupation.” 
He lowered his voice. “ Do you mind if I am ill-bred and 
ask you if you have known our Host very long?” 

“A few years.” He nodded. 

Beryl, glancing across at her father and Steppe, saw that 
the doctor was talking earnestly. She caught Steppe’s gaze 
and looked back to Sir John. 

“ I have been fighting a case for him — rather a hopeless 
proposition, but we won. The jury was wrong, I think, in 
giving us a verdict. I can say this because the other side 
have entered an appeal which is certain to succeed.” 

Jan Steppe must have heard the last sentence. 

“Huh? Succeed? Yes, perhaps — it doesn’t matter 
very much. I had a verdict, a disqualified winner is still a 
moral winner, huh, doctor? You used to be a racing man, 
what do you think?” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


43 


Dinner was announced whilst the doctor was disclaiming 
any knowledge of the turf or its laws. The dinner was 
exquisite in its selection and brevity. Mr. Steppe had one 
special course which none of the others shared. He invited 
them and showed no regret when they refused. A footman 
brought a silver dish piled high with steaming mealy cobs. 
He took them in his hands and gnawed at the hot corn. It 
was probably the only way that mealies could be eaten, she 
told herself — no more inelegant an exhibition than the 
sword-swallowing manoeuvre which followed the serving 
of asparagus. 

“Sault?” Mr. Steppe was wiping his fingers on his 
serviette. “You asked me once before, Beryl — where was 
it? In the park. No, I haven’t seen him. I very seldom 
do. Strange man, huh?” 

The butler had attended more frequently to Dr. Mer- 
ville’s wine glass than to any other of the guests. His 
gloom had disappeared and he was more like the cheerful 
man Beryl remembered. 

“ Sault is a danger and a menace to society,” he said. 

Steppe’s brows lowered but he did not interrupt. 

“At the same time he can exerpise one of the most 
beneficent forces that nature has ever given into the care 
of a human being.” 

“You pique my curiosity,” said Maxton, interested. “Is 
he psychic or clairvoyant — from yoUr tone one would 
imagine that he had some supernatural power.” 

“ He has,” nodded Merville. “ I discovered it some time 
ago. He lodges with a woman named Colebrook in a very 
poor part of the town. Mrs. Colebrook suffers from an 
unusual form of heart disease. She had a seizure one night 


44 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


and Sault came for me. You will remember, dear, when 
I was called out in the middle of the night — a year ago. 
The moment I examined the woman, who was unconscious, 
and in my opinion in extremis, I knew that nothing could 
be done. I applied the remedies which I had brought with 
me, and which I had thought, from his description of the 
seizure, would be necessary, but with no effect. Sault was 
terribly upset. The woman had two daughters, one bed- 
ridden. His grief at the thought that she would die with- 
out her daughter seeing her, was tragic. I think he was 
going upstairs to bring the girl down, when I said casually 
that if I could lend the patient strength to live for another 
hour, she would probably recover. What followed, seems 
to me even now as part of a fantastic dream.” 

Beryl’s elbow was on the table, her chin in her palm 
and she was absorbed. Maxton lay back, his arm hanging 
over the back of his chair, weighing every word; Steppe, 
his hands clasped on the table, his head bent, skeptical. 

“ Sault bent down and took the inert hands of the woman 
in his — just held them. Remember this, that she was the 
color of this serviette, her lips gray. I wondered what he 
was doing — I don’t know now. Only her face went grad- 
ually pink and her eyes opened.” 

“How long after he took her hands?” asked Maxton. 

“Less than a minute I should think. As I say, she 
opened her eyes and looked around and then she nodded 
very slowly. ‘What do you think of that. Dr. Merville?’ 
she said.” 

“She knew you, of course?” 

“ She had never seen me in her life. I learned that 
afterwards. Sault dropped her hands and stood up. He 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


45 


was looking ghastly. Not a vestige of color. I said to 
him : ‘ Sault, what is the matter, and he answered in a 
cockney whine, that was ‘h’less and ungrammatical — Sault 
never makes an error in that respect — ‘ It’s me ’eart, sir, 
I get them attacks at times — haneurism.’ ” 

“ Sault?” 

Steppe’s face was puckered into a grimace of incredulity. 

“Go on, please, father!” urged the girl. 

“What came after was even more curious. Mrs. Cole- 
brook got up quite unaided, sat down in a chair before 
the fire and fell fast asleep. Sault sat down, too. I gave 
him some brandy and he seemed to recover. But he 
did not speak again, not even to answer my questions. 
He sat bolt upright in a wooden chair by the side of the 
kitchen table — all this happened in the kitchen. He didn’t 
move for a long time and then his hands began to stray 
along the table. There was a big work basket at the other 
side and presently his hands reached it and he drew it 
toward him. I watched him. He took out some garment, 
I think it was a night dress belonging to one of the girls. 
It was unfinished and the needle was sticking into it — he 
began to sew!” 

“Good God!” cried Maxton. “Do you suggest that on 
the touching of hands the two identities changed?” 

“ I suggest that — I assert that,” said the doctor quietly, 
and drank his wine. 

“ Rubbish!” growled Steppe. “ What did Sault say about 
it?” 

“ I will tell you. Exactly an hour after this extraordinary 
transference had been made, I saw Mrs. Colebrook going 
pale. She opened her eyes and looked at me in a puzzled 


46 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


way, then at the daughter, a pretty child who had been 
present all the time. ‘ I always ’ave these attacks, sir,’ 
she said, ‘ a haneurism the doctors call it ! ’ ” 

“And Sault?” 

“ He was himself again, but distressingly tired and wan.” 

“ Did he explain?” 

The doctor shook his head. 

“He didn’t understand or remember much. The next 
day out of curiosity I called at the house and asked him 
if he could sew. He was amused. He said that he had 
never used a needle in his life, his hands were too big.” 

Beryl sat back with a sigh. “It doesn’t seem — human,” 
she said. 

The doctor had opened his mouth to reply when there 
was a crash in the hall outside and the sound of a high, 
aggressive voice. Another second and the door was thrown 
violently open and the man lurched in. He was hatless 
and his frock coat was covered with the coffee-colored 
stains of wet mud. His cravat was awry and the ends hung 
loose over his unbuttoned waist-coat. A stray lock of 
black hair hung over his narrow forehead. He strode into 
the center of the room and with legs apart, one hand on 
his hip and the other caressing his long, brown beard, he 
surveyed the company with a sardonic smile. 

“Hail! Thieves and brother bandits!” he said thickly. 
He spoke with a slight lisp. “Hail! Head devil and chief 
of the tribe! Hail! Helen — ” 

Steppe was on his feet, his head thrust forwards, his 
shoulders bent. Maxton saw him and started. There was 
something feline in that crouching attitude. “ You drunken 
fool! How dare you come here, huh!” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


47 


Mr. Moropulos snapped his fingers contemptuously. “ I 
come, because I have the right,” he said with drunken 
gravity, “ who will deny the prime minister the right of 
calling upon the king?” he bowed and nearly lost his 
balance, recovering by the aid of a chairback. 

“ Go to my study, Moropulos, I will come out with you,” 
Steppe had gained control of himself, but the big frame was 
trembling with pent rage. 

“ Study — bah ! Here is my study ! Hail, doctor, man 
of obnoxious draughts, hail, stranger, whoever you are — 
where’s the immaculate Ronnie? Flower of English 
chivalry and warrior of a million flights — huh?” 

He bellowed his imitation of Steppe’s grunt and chuck- 
led with laughter. 

“ Now, listen, confederates, I have done with you all. I 
am going to live honest. Why? I will tell you — ” 

“Moropulos!” Beryl turned quickly toward the door. 
She knew before she saw the stolid figure that it was Sault. 
Moropulos turned too. 

“Ah! The faithful Ambrose — do you want me, Sault?” 
His tone was mild, he seemed to wilt under the steady gaze 
of the man in the doorway. Ambrose Sault beckoned and 
the drunken intruder shuffled out, shamefaced, fearful. 

“ Quite an interesting evening,” said Sir John Maxton 
as he closed the car door on the Mervilles that night. 


VII 


Two days later Sir John Maxton made an unexpected call 
upon the doctor and it occurred to him that he might also 
have made an unwelcome appearance; for he interrupted 
a tete-a-tete. 

“ I thought I should find the doctor in. Well, Ronnie, 
how are you after all these years?” 

Ronnie was relieved to see him — that was the impression 
which the lawyer received. And Beryl, although she was 
her sweet, equable self, would gladly have excused his 
presence. Maxton had an idea that he had surprised them 
in the midst of a quarrel. The girl was flushed and her 
eyes were unusually bright. Ronnie’s countenance was 
clouded with gloom. Sir John was sensitive to atmosphere. 

“ No, I really won’t stay, I wanted to have a chat with the 
doctor about the extraordinary story he told us the other 
night. I was dining with the Lord Chief and some other 
judges last night and, without mentioning names, of course, 
I repeated the story. They were remarkably interested, 
Berham says that he had heard of such a case — ” 

“ What is all this about?” asked Ronnie curiously. “ You 
didn’t tell me anything. Beryl. Who, what and where is the 
‘case’?” 

“Mr. Sault,” she said shortly. 

“ Oh, Sault ! He is an extraordinary fellow — I must 
meet him. They say that he cannot read or write.” 

“ Is that a fact?” Sir John Maxton looked at the girl. 

48 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


49 


“Yes — I believe so. Ronnie on the contrary is in the 
way of becoming a famous writer, Sir John.” 

“ So I hear.” He wondered why she had so deliberately 
and so abruptly brought the conversation into another 
channel. 

Ronald Morelle, for his part, was not inclined to let the 
subject drift. “ It is quaint how that coon intrigues you 
all,” he said, “ oh, yes, he is colored. You haven’t seen 
him, John, or you wouldn’t ask that question.” 

“ I have seen him ; it did not appear to me that he was 
colored — he has a striking face.” 

“ At any rate, he seems to have struck you and Beryl all of 
a heap,” said Ronnie smiling. “Really I must meet him. 
Are you going. Sir John?” Maxton was taking his farewell 
of the girl. “Because if you are. I’ll walk a little way 
with you. ’Bye, Beryl.” 

“Goodbye, Ronnie,” she said quietly. 

Once in the street Maxton asked: “What is the matter 
with you and Beryl?” 

“Nothing — Beryl is just a little grandmotherly. She 
went to the theatre last night with some people and she 
spotted me in a box.” 

“ I see,” said Sir John drily, “ and of course you were 
not alone in the box.” 

“Why on earth should I be?” demanded the other. 
“Beryl is really unreasonable. She swore that my friend 
was a girl she had seen me with in the park.” 

“And who was it — is that a discreet question?” 

“ No it isn’t,” said Ronnie instantly. “ I don’t think one 
ought to chuck names about — it is most dishonorable and 
caddish. The lady was a very great friend of mine.” 


50 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“Then I probably know her,” said Sir John wilfully 
dense. “ I know most of the people in your set, and I can- 
not imagine that you would be scoundrel enough to escort 
the kind of girl you couldn’t introduce to me or Beryl or 
any other of your friends.” 

“ I give you my word of honor,” Ronnie was earnest, 
“ that the lady was not only presentable, but is known per- 
sonally to you. The fact is, that she had a row with her 
fiance, a man I know very well, a Coldstreamer, and I was 
doing no more than trying to reconcile them — bring them 
together you understand. She was dreadfully depressed, 
and I got a box at the theatre with the idea of cheering her 
up. My efforts,” he added virtuously, “were successful. 
Beryl said that it was a girl — the daughter of a dear 
friend of mine, she had seen me talking with in the park.” 

“What dear friend of yours was this?” 

“ I don’t think you’ve met him,” parried Ronnie. 

“Did she have trouble with her fiance, too?” asked Sir 
John innocently. “Really, Ronnie, you are coming out 
strong as a disinterested friend of distressed virgins! If 
I may employ the imagery and language of an American 
burglar whom I recently defended — Sir Galahad has noth- 
ing on you!” 

“You don’t believe me, John,” said Ronnie injured. 

“ Of course I cannot believe you. I am not a child. 
You had some girl with you, some ‘ pick up ’, innocent or 
guilty, God knows. I will assume her innocence. The 
sophisticated have no appeal for you. There was a girl 
named East — a chorus girl, if I remember rightly — ” 

“ If you’re going to talk about that disgraceful attempt 
to blackmail me, I’m finished,” said Ronnie resigned. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


51 


“ Why didn’t you charge her and her brother with black- 
mail? They came to me — ” 

“Good lord, did they? I’ll break that infernal black- 
guard’s neck!” 

“When will you meet him?” Ronnie did not answer. 

“They came to me and I knew that the story was true. 
The brother, of course, is a blackmailer. He is levying 
blackmail now and you are paying him — don’t argue, 
Ronnie, of course you are paying him. You said just now 
that you would break his neck, which meant tp me that you 
see him frequently — when he comes to draw his blood 
money. If it were a case of blackmail, why did you not 
prosecute? The mere threat of the prosecution would 
have been sufficient to have sent him to ground — it struck 
me that the girl was acting under the coercion of her 
brother, and I do not think you would have had any trouble 
from her. Ronnie, you are rotten.” He said this as he 
stopped at the corner of Park Lane and Piccadilly, and 
Ronnie smiled nervously. 

“ Oh come now, John, that is rather a strong expression.” 

“Rotten,” repeated the lawyer. He screwed a monocle 
in his eye and surveyed his companion dispassionately. 
“Chorus girls — shop girls — the mechanics of joy who 
serve Mjadame Ritti — that made you jump, eh? I know 
quite a lot about you. They are your life. And God gave 
you splendid gifts and the love of the sweetest, dearest girl 
in this land.” 

“Who is this?” asked the young man slowly. 

“Beryl. You do not need to be told that. Search the 
ranks of your light women for her beauty, Ronnie.” 

A girl passed them, a wisp of a girl on the borderline 


52 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


of womanhood. She carried a little bag and was hurrying 
home from the store where she was employed. Even as he 
listened to the admonition of his companion, Ronnie caught 
her eyes and smiled into them — she paused and looked 
round once — he was still watching her. 

“ I am afraid I must leave you, John, I’ve a lot of work 
to do, and you are quite mistaken as to my character — and 
Beryl.” He left the lawyer abruptly and walked toward the 
gates of the park where the girl had stopped, ostensibly 
to tie a shoe-lace. 

Sir John saw her pass leisurely into the park; a few 
seconds later Ronnie had followed. His time was his own, 
for Evie Colebrook was working that evening, the annual 
stocktaking was in progress, as she had told him when they 
were at the theatre on the previous night. 

“Rotten!” repeated Maxton, and stalked gloomily to his 
club. 


VIII 


Mr. Ronald Morelle’s flat was on the third floor of a 
block that faced busy Knightsbridge. His library was a 
large and airy room at the back and from the open case- 
ments commanded an uninterrupted view of the park. It 
was a pleasant room with its rows of bookshelves and its 
chintzes. The silver fireplace and the rich Persian rugs 
which covered the parquet were the only suggestions of 
luxury. There were one or two pictures which Francois 
had an order to remove when certain visitors were expected. 
The rest were decent reproductions with the exception of a 
large oil painting above the mantelpiece. It was a St. 
Anthony and was attributed to Titiano Vecellio. The 
austere saint loomed darkly from a sombre background and 
was represented as an effeminate youth; the veining of the 
neck and shoulders was characteristically Titian, so too was 
the inclination of a marble colunrn which showed faintly 
in the picture. Titiano’s inability to draw a true vertical 
line is well known and upon this column, more than upon 
other evidence, the experts accepted the picture as an early 
example of the fortunate painter’s work. 

Ronnie was indifferent as to the authenticity of the 
picture. The dawning carnality on Anthony’s lean face, 
the misty shape of the temptress — Titian or his disciple 
had reduced to visibility the doubt, the gloating and the 
very thoughts of the Saint. 

53 


54 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


A black oak table stood in the center of the room and 
a deep Medici writing chair was placed opposite the black 
blotting-pad. It pleased Ronnie to imitate those ministers 
of state who employed this color to thwart curious-minded 
servants who, with the aid of a mirror, might discover the 
gist of outward correspondence. 

It was nearing midnight when the sound of Ronnie’s key 
in the lock sent his sleepy servant into the lobby. Ronnie 
stood in the hall tenderly stripping his gloves. “ Has any- 
body been?” 

“No, m’sieur.” 

“Letters?” 

“ Only one, m’sieur. An account.” 

He opened the library door and Ronnie walked in. He 
switched on the light of his desk lamp and sat down. “ I 
have not been out all the evening, Francois.” 

“No, m’sieur.” 

“ I came home after dinner and I have not left this room, 
do you understand?” 

“ Perfectly, m’sieur.” 

“Have we any iodine — look for it, damn you, don’t 
gape!” 

Francois hurried out to inspect the contents of the bath- 
room locker, where were stored such first aid remedies as 
were kept in the flat. Ronnie looked at his hand and 
pulled back the cuff of his coat; three ugly red scratches 
ran from the wrist to the base of the middle fingers. His 
lips pursed angrily. “Little beast,” he said. “Well?” 

“There is a bottle — would m’sieur like a bandage?” 

“ It is not necessary — have you a cat in the flat? — no, 
well get one tomorrow. You need not keep it permanently. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


55 


I don’t think there will be any trouble. Bring me a hand- 
mirror from my dressing-table — hurry.” 

He lifted the shade from the table lamp and, in the 
mirror, examined his face carefully. His right cheek was 
red, he imagined finger-marks, but the fine skin had not 
been torn. 

“ I have had a quarrel with a lady, Francois. A common 
girl — I do not think she will make any further trouble, 
but if she does — she does not know me anyway.” 

Ronald’s love-making had ended unpleasantly, and he 
had left the dark aisles of the park in a hurry, before the 
scream of a frightened girl had brought the police to the 
spot. 

“ I was expecting m’sieur to telephone me saying that I 
might go home,” said Frangois. He lodged in Kensington, 
and sometimes it was convenient for Ronnie, that he should 
go home early. Two women came in the morning to clean 
the flat and he usually arrived in time to carry in his 
master’s breakfast from the restaurant attached to the 
building. 

“ No, I didn’t telephone. Take this glass hack and bring 
me the evening newspapers. That is all. You can clear 
out.” 

When the front door closed upon his valet, Ronnie got up 
and, walking to the window, pulled aside the curtains. 
The casement was open and he sat down on the padded 
window-seat, looking out into the darkness. He was not 
thinking of his night’s adventure, being something of a 
philosopher. The sordidness and the vulgarity of it, would 
not distress him in any circumstances. He was thinking of 
Beryl and what John Maxton had said. He knew that she 


56 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


liked him, but he had made no special effort to foster her 
affection or to evolve from their relationship one more 
intimate. By his code, she was taboo; lovemaking with 
Beryl could only lead to marriage, and matrimony was out- 
side of his precarious plans. It pleased him to ponder 
upon Beryl — perhaps she was in love with him. He had 
not considered the possibility before. That women only 
differed by the hats they wore was a working rule of his; 
but it was strange that the influence he exercised was com- 
mon to girls so widely separated by birth, education and 
taste as Beryl was from Evie Colebrook — and others. 

Self-disparagement was the last weakness to be expected 
in Ronald Morelle, and yet, it was true to say that he had 
restricted his hunting for so long to one variety of game, 
that he doubted his ability to follow another. 

His father had been an enthusiastic hawker, one of the 
remaining few who followed the sport of kings, and Ronnie 
invariably thought of his adventuring in terms of falconry. 
He was a hawk, enseamed, a hawk that swung on its rigid 
sails, waiting on until the quarry was sprung. Sometimes 
the quarry was not taken without talons to rend and tear 
at the embarrassed falcon — he felt the wounds on his hand 
gingerly. But a trained hawk respects the domestic fowl, 
even the folk of the dovecot may coo at peace whilst he 
waits on in the sky. Beryl — ? She was certainly lovely. 
Her figure was delectable. And her mouth, red and full — 
a Rossetti woman should not have such lips. Was it Ros- 
setti who painted those delicately featured women? He got 
up and found a big portfolio filled with prints. Yes, it was 
Rossetti, but Beryl’s figure was incomparably more deli- 
cious than any woman’s that the painter had drawn. He 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


57 


came back to the window, staring out into the night, until, 
in the gray of dawn, the outline of trees emerged from the 
void. Then he went to bed and to sleep. He did not move 
for five hours and then he woke with a horrible sense of 
desolation. He blinked round the room and at that instant 
the clock of a church began to strike — the quarters sounded 
— a pause. 

“ Toll — toll — toll — toll — toll — toll — toll — toll — 
toll.” Nine o’clock! With a scream of fear he leaped out 
of bed, sweating, panic-stricken, forlorn. Nine o’clock! 
“ No — no — Christ — no ! ” 

Frangois, an early arrival, heard his voice and rushed in. 
“M’sieur,” he gasped. 

Ronald Morelle was sitting on his bed, sobbing into his 
hands. 

“A nightmare, Frangois — a nightmare — get out, blast 
you!” But he had had no nightmare, could recall nothing 
of dreams, though he strove all day, his head throbbing. 
Only he knew that to hear nine o’clock striking had seemed 
very dreadful. 


IX 


“ I SAW your friend Ronald Morelle today,” said Morop- 
ulos, sending a writhing ring of smoke to the ceiling. 
Sprawling on a big morris chair, his slippered feet resting 
on the edge of a fender, he watched the circle break against 
the ceiling. A pair of stained gray flannel trousers, a silk 
shirt and a velvet coat that had once been a vivid green; 
these and an immense green silk cravat, the color of which 
showed through his beard, constituted his usual morning 
negligee. 

Ambrose Sault, busy with the body of an unfinished safe, 
which in the rough had come from the maker’s hands that 
morning, released the pressure of his acetylene lamp and 
removed his goggles before he replied. 

He was working in shirt and trousers, and his sleeves 
were rolled up, displaying the rope-like muscles of his arm. 
He looked across to his indolent companion and wiped the 
perspiration from his forehead. 

“ Mr. Ronald Morelle is neither a friend nor an acquaint- 
ance, Moropulos. I don’t think I have ever seen him. I 
have heard of him.” 

“You haven’t missed much by not knowing him,” said 
Moropulos, “ but he’s a good-looking fellow.” 

He flicked the ash of his cigarette on to the tiled hearth. 
“ Steppe is still annoyed with me.” Sault smiled to 
himself. 

“You think he is justified? Perhaps. I was terribly 
drunk, but I was happy. Some day, my dear brother, I 
58 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


59 


shall get so drunk that even you will not hold nae. I move 
towards my apotheosis of intoxication certainly and surely. 
Then I will be irresistible and I shall have no fear of those 
brute arms of yours.” He sucked at the cigarette without 
speaking for a long time. Sault went back to his work. 

“I have often wondered!” said Moropulos at last. 

“What?” 

“ Whether it would have been better if I had followed the 
advice of my head man that morning I pulled you aboard 
the sloop. You remember Bob the Kanaka boy? He 
wanted to knock you on the head and drop you overboard; 
you were too dangerous, he said. If a government boat had 
picked us up and you had been found on board as well as 
— certain other illicit properties, I should have had a 
double charge against me. I said ‘ no ’ because I was sorry 
for you.” 

“Because you were afraid of me,” said Sault calmly, 
“ I knew you were afraid when I looked into your eyes. 
Why do you speak of the islands now — we haven’t talked 
about the Pacific since I left the boat.” 

“ I’ve been thinking about you,” confessed Moropulos 
with a quick sly glance at the man. “ Do you realize 
how — not ‘curious’ — what is the word?” 

“Incurious!” suggested Sault, and Moropulos looked at 
him with reluctant admiration. 

“ You are an extraordinary homhre, Sault. Merville says 
you have the vocahulaire — that is English or something 
like it — of an educated man. But to return — do you 
realize how incurious I am? For example, I have never 
once asked you, in all our years of knowing one another, 
why you killed that man?” 


60 


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“Which man?” 

Moropulos laughed softly. “ Butcher ! Have you killed 
so many? I refer to the victim for whose destruction the 
French government sent you to New Caledonia.” 

Sault stood leaning his back against the table his eyes 
fixed on the floor. “ He was a bad man,” he said simply, 
“ I tried to find another way of — stopping him, but he was 
clever and he had powerful friends, who were government 
ofiicials. So I killed him. He hired two men to wait for 
me one night. I was staying at a little hotel on the Plassy 
Road. They tried to beat me because I had reported this 
man. Then I knew that the only thing I could do was to 
kill him. ’ I should do it again.” 

Moropulos surveyed him from under his lowered brows. 
“ You were lucky to escape ‘ the widow ’, my friend,” he 
said, but Ambrose shook his head. 

“Nobody was executed in those days; capital punishment 
had not been abolished, but the Senate refused to vote 
the executioner his salary. It had the same effect. I was 
lucky to go to New Caledonia. Cayenne is worse.” 

“How long did you serve?” 

“Eight years and seven months,” was the reply. 

Moropulos made a little grimace. “ I would sooner die,” 
he said and lit another cigarette. Deep in thought he 
smoked until Ambrose made a move to pick up his Crooke’s 
glasses. 

“ Don’t work. I hate to see you — and hate worse to hear 
you. What do you think of Morelle?” 

“ I don’t know him; I have heard about him. He is not a 
good man.” 

“What is a good man?” Moropulos demanded contemp- 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


61 


tuously. “ He is a lover of ladies, who isn’t? He is a cur 
too. Steppe walks on him. He is scared of Steppe but then 
everybody is, except you and I.” Ambrose smiled. 

“Well, perhaps I am — he is such a gorilla. But you are 
not.” 

“Why should I be? I am stronger than he.” 

Moropulos looked at the man’s bare arms. “Yes — I 
suppose it comes down to that. The basis of all fear, is 
physical. When will the safe be finished?” 

“In a week. I am assembling the lock at home. I 
shall make it work to five letters. The oply word I can 
spell. I shouldn’t have known that, but I heard a man 
spell it once — on the ship that brought me home. He was 
a steerage passenger and he used to take his little child on 
the deck when it was fine, and the little one used to read 
Scripture stories to him. When she came to a hard word, 
he spelled it. I heard one word and never forgot it.” 

“ I’ll be glad when the thing is finished,” the Greek med- 
itated. “We have a whole lot of papers that we never 
want to see the light of day. Steppe and I. We could 
de^roy them, but they may be useful, correspondence that 
it isn’t safe to keep and it isn’t wise to bum. You are an 
ingenious devil!” 

In the Paddington directory, against “Moropulos, 49 
Junction Terrace,” were the words, “ mining engineer.” It 
was a courtesy status, for he had neither mined nor engin- 
eered. Probably the people of Junction Terrace were too 
occupied with their own strenuous affairs to read the 
directory. They knew him as one who at irregular periods 
was brought home in the middle of the night singing noisily 
in a strange language. Cicero’s oration was Greek to 


62 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


Cassius; the melodious gibberish of Mr. Moropulos was 
Greek to Junction Terrace, thougAthey were not aware of 
the fact. No. 49 was a gaunt, damp house with a mottled 
face, for the stucco had peeled in patches and had never 
been renewed. Moropulos bought it at a bargain price and 
made no contingency allowance for delapidations. The 
windows of the upper floors were dingy and unwashed. The 
owner argued that as he did not occupy the rooms above, it 
would be wicked waste of money to clean the windows. 
Similarly he dispensed with carpets in the hall and on the 
stairs. 

His week-ends he spent in more pleasing surroundings, 
for he had a cottage on the borders of Hampshire where he 
kept hens and grew cabbage-roses and on Sundays loafed 
in his garden, generally in his pajamas, to the scandal of 
the neighborhood. He had a whimsical turn of mind and 
named his cottage, “ The Parthenon ”, and supported this 
conceit by decorating his arcadian groves with plaster re- 
productions of the great figures of mythology, such figures 
as Phidias and Polycletus and Praxiteles chiselled. He 
added to this a wooden pronaos which the local builder 
misguidedly surmised was intended for the entrance to a 
new cinema. When they discovered that the erection had 
no other purpose than to remind Moropulos of departed 
Hellenic splendors, the grief of the villagers was pathetic, 

Here he was kept, reluctantly, tidy. He owned a small 
American car which supplied him the transportation he 
required, and made his country home accessible. It was 
Friday, the day he usually left town, but he had lingered on, 
hoping to see some tangible progress in the construction of 
the safe. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


63 


“You never seem to get any further,” he complained. 
“You have been fiddling with that noisy lamp for two 
hours, and, so far as I can see, you’ve done nothing. How 
long will it be before anything happens?” and then before 
Sault could reply he went on: “Why don’t you come to 
my little Athens, Sault? You prefer to stay in town. And 
you are a man of brains! Have you a girl here, eh?” 
“No.” 

“Gee! What a time that fellow Ronnie must have! But 
they will catch him some day — a mad father or a lunatic 
fiance, and ping! There will be Ronnie Morelle’s brains 
on the floor, and the advocates pleading the unwritten law!” 

“You seem to know a lot about him?” 

Moropulos ran his fingers through his beard and grinned 
at the ceiling. “Yes — I can’t know too much. We shall 
have trouble with him. Steppe laughs at the idea. He 
has him bound to his heel — is that the expression, no? 
Well, he has him like that! But how can you bind a liar 
or chain an eel? His very cowardice is a danger.” 

“What have you to be afraid of?” asked Sault. “ So far 
as I can make out, you are carryirf^ on an honest business. 
It must be, or the doctor wouldn’t be in it.” His tone was 
sharp and challenging. Moropulos had sufficient nous not 
to accept that kind of cljgillenge. 

“ I can understand that you have papers that you wish to 
keep in such a way that nobody but yourselves can get at 
them. All businesses have their secrets.” 

“ Quite so,” agreed the Greek and yawned. 

“ Ronnie will pay,” he said, “ but I am anxious that I 
should not be asked to contribute to the bill. I have had a 
great deal of amusement watching him. The other night 


64 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


I was in the park. I go there because he goes. I know 
the paths he uses. And there came with him a most pretty 
young lady. She did not know him.” 

“You guessed that?” 

“ I know, because later, when she complained, she did not 
know his name. Ronnie!” he mused. “Now I tell you 
what I will undertake to do. I will make a list, accurate 
and precise, of all his love affairs. It will be well to know 
these, because there may come a day when it will be good to 
flourish a weapon in this young man’s face. Such men 
marry rich women.” 

Sault was working and only muttered his reply. He was 
not then interested in Ronnie Morelle. 


X 


He stayed on in the house long after Moropulos had 
dragged himself to his room and had dressed for the 
journey. So absorbed was he in his task that the Greek 
left without his noticing. At seven o’clock he finished, put 
away his tools in a cupboard, threw a cloth over the safe, 
and went out, locking the door behind him. 

Both Steppe and Moropulos had urged him to live in 
the house, but though he had few predilections that were 
not amenable to the necessities of his friends, Sault was 
firm on this point. He preferred the liberty which his 
lodgings gave him. Possibly he foresaw the difficulties 
which might arise if he lived entirely with the Greek. 
Moropulos had a vicious and an uncertain tongue; was 
tetchy on some points, grotesquely so, on the question of 
Greek decadence, although he had lived so long away from 
his native country that English was almost his mother 
tongue. Sault could be tactful, but he had a passion for 
truth, and the two qualities are often incompatible. 

A bus carried him to the end of the street where he 
lodged, and he stopped at a store on the corner and bought 
a box of biscuits for Christina. She was secretary and 
reader to him, and he repaid her services with a library 
subscription and such delicacies as she asked him to get for 
her. The subscription was a godsend to the girl, and aug- 
mented, as it was, by an occasional volume which Evie 
was allowed to bring from the store library by virtue of 
her employment, her days were brightened and her dreams 
65 


66 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


took a wider range than ever. The driving force of learning 
is imagination. By imagination was Christina educated. 

Evie sometimes said that she did not understand one half 
of the words that Christina used. To Mrs. Colebrook her 
daughter was an insoluble enigma. She associated edu- 
cation with brain fever and ideas above your station, and 
whilst she was secretly proud of the invalid’s learning, 
she regarded Christina’s spinal trouble as being partly 
responsible for the abnormality. Mrs. Colebrook believed 
in dreams and premonitions and the sinister significance 
of broken picture wires. It was part of her creed that 
people who are not long for this world possess super- 
natural accomplishments. Therefore she eyed Christina’s 
books askance, and looked upon the extra library sub- 
scription as being a wild flight in the face of Providence. 
She expressed that view privately to Ambrose Sault. 

“You have come at a propitious moment, Sault Efifendi,” 
said Christina solemnly as he came in. “I have just been 
taking my last look at the silvery Bosphorus. My husband, 
taking offense at a kiss I threw to the handsome young 
sultan as he rose beneath my latticed window, has decreed 
that tonight I am to be tied in a sack and thrown into the 
dark waters!” 

“Good gracious,” said Ambrose. “You have been in 
trouble today, Christina.” 

“Not very much. The journey was a lovely one. We 
went by way of Bergen — and thank you ever so much for 
that old Bradshaw you got for me. It was just the thing 
I wanted.” 

“Mr. Moropulos kindly gave it to me — yes — Bergen?” 

“And then to Petrograd — the Czars were there, poor 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


67 


people — and then to Odessa, and down the Black Sea in — 
oh, I don’t know. It was a silly journey today, Ambrose — 
I wasn’t in the heart for a holiday.” 

“Is your back any worse?” 

She shook her head. “No — it seems better. I nearly 
let myself dream about getting well. Do you think that 
other idea is possible? We can borrow a spinal carriage 
from the Institute but mother hasn’t much time, and besides, 
I couldn’t get down those narrow stairs without a lot of 
help. Yes — yes, yes! I know it is possible now. But the 
chariot, dear Ambrose?” 

“I’ve got it!” he chuckled at her astonishment, “it will 
come tomorrow. It is rather like a motor-car for I have to 
find a garage for it. In this tiny house there is no room. 
But I got it — no, it didn’t cost me a great deal. Dr. Mer- 
ville told me where I could get one cheap. I put new tires 
on and the springs are grand. Christina, you will be — 
don’t cry, Christina, please — you make me feel terrible!” 
His agitation had the effect of calming her. 

“There must be something in this room that makes 
people weep,” she gulped. “Ambrose — Evie is just worry- 
ing me to death.” 

“What is wrong?” 

She shook her red head helplessly. “ I don’t know. She 
is changed — she is old. She’s such a kid, too — such a 
kid! If that man hurts her,” the knuckles of her clenched 
hand showed bone- white through the skin, “ I’ll ask you 
to do what you did for mother, Ambrose, give me strength 
for an hour — ” her voice sank to a husky whisper, “and 
I’ll kill him — kill him — ” 

Sault sat locking and unlocking his fingers, his eyes 


68 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


vacant. “ She will not be hurt. I wish I were sure it was 
Ronald Morelle. Steppe has only to lift his finger — ” 

They heard the sound of Mrs. Colebrook’s heavy feet on 
the stairs and Christina wondered why she was coming up. 
She had never interrupted their little talks before. 

“ Somebody to see you, Christina, and I’m sure it is too 
kind of you, miss, and please thank the doctor. I’ll never 
be grateful enough for what he did — ” 

Ambrose Sault got up slowly to his feet as Beryl came 
into the room. 

“I wonder if you really mind my coming — I am Beryl 
Merville.” 

“ It is very good of you, Miss Merville,” said Christina 
primly. She was ready to dislike her visitor; she hated 
the unknown people who called upon her, especially the 
people who brought jelly and fruit and last year’s maga- 
zines. Their touching faith in the virtues of calves’-foot and 
fruit as a panacea for human ills, their automatic cheerful- 
ness and mechanical good-humor, drove her wild. The 
church and its women had given up Christina ever since 
she had asked, in answer to the inevitable question: “Yes, 
there are some things I want; I’d like a box of perfumed 
cigarettes, some marron glace and a good English trans- 
lation of ‘Liaisons Dangereux’.” 

She loathed marron glace and scented tobacco was an 
abomination. Her chief regret was that the shocked in- 
quirer had never heard of “Liaisons Dangereux”. Christina 
only knew of its existence from a reference in a literary 
weekly which came her way. 

Beryl sensed the hidden antagonism and the cause. “ I 
really haven’t come in a district visitor spirit,” she said. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


69 


“ I’m not frightfully sorry for you and I haven’t brought 
you oranges — ” 

“ Grapes,” corrected Christina. “ They give you appen- 
dicitis — mother read that on the back page of ‘Health 
Hints ’. Sit down, Miss Merville. This is Mr. Sault.” She 
nodded to Ambrose. 

“ Mr. Sault and I are old acquaintances,” she said. She 
did not look at him. “ I have to explain why I came at all. 
I know that you are not particularly enthusiastic about 
stray visitors — nobody is. But my father was talking 
about you at lunch today. He has never seen you, but Mr. 
Sault has spoken about you and, of course, he does know 
your mother. And father said: ‘Why don’t you go along 
and see her. Beryl?’ I said, ‘She would probably he very 
annoyed — but I’ll take her that new long wordy novel that 
is so popular. I’m sure she’ll hate it as much as I.’ ” 

“If it is ‘Let the World Go’, I’m certain I shall,” said 
Christina promptly, “ but I’d love to read it. Let us sneer 
together.” Beryl laughed and produced the book. 

It seemed an appropriate moment for Ambrose to retire 
and he went out of the room quietly; he thought that 
neither of the girls saw him go, but he was mistaken. 
Christina Colebrook was sensitive to his every movement, 
and Beryl had really come to the house to see him. 

On her way home she tried to arraign herself before the 
bar of intelligence, hut it was not until she was alone in her 
room that night that she set forth the stark facts of her 
folly. She loved Ronald Morelle, loved him with an inten- 
sity which frightened her; loved him, although he was, 
according to all standards by which men are judged, des- 
picable. He was a coward, a liar, a slave to his baser 


70 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


appetites. She had no doubt in her mind, when she faced 
the truth, that the stories which had been told of him were 
true. The East girl — the pretty parlormaid who had 
begun an action against him. 

And yet there was something infinitely pathetic about 
Ronald Morelle, something that made her heart go out to 
him. Or was that a case of self-deception too? Was it not 
the beautiful animal she loved, the sleek, lithe tiger — alive 
and vital and remorseless? To all that was brain and spirit 
in her, he was loathsome. There were periods when she 
hated him and was bitterly contemptuous of herself. And in 
these periods came the soft voice of Ambrose Sault, whis- 
pering, insinuating. That was lunacy, too. He was old 
enough to be her father; was an illiterate workman, an ex- 
convict, a murderer; w'hen her father had told her he had 
killed a man she was neither shocked nor surprised. She 
had guessed, from his brief reference to New Caledonia, 
that he had lived on that island under duress. He must have 
been convicted of some great crime; she could not imagine 
him in any mean or petty role. A coarse-handed workman, 
shabby of attire — it was madness to dream and dream of 
him as she did. And dreams, so Freud had said, were the 
expressions of wishes unfulfilled. What did she wish? She 
was prepared to answer the question frankly if any answer 
could be framed. But she had no ultimate wish. Her 
dreams of Ambrose Sault were unfinishable. Their ends 
ran into unfathomable darkness. 

“I wonder if he is very fond of that red-haired girl?” 
she asked her mirror. Contemplating such a possibility 
she experienced a pang of jealousy and hated herself for 
it. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


71 


Jan Steppe came back from Paris on the eve of her birth- 
day. He called at the house the next morning, before she 
was down, and interviewed Dr. Merville; when Beryl went 
in to breakfast, two little packages lay on her plate. The 
first was a diamond shawl pin. 

“You are a dear, daddy!” She went round the table 
and kissed him. “ It is beautiful and I wanted one badly.” 

She hurried back to her place. Perhaps Ronnie had 
remembered — ? 

She picked up the card that was enclosed and read it. 
“Mr. Steppe?” 

Her father shot a quick glance at her. “Yes — bought 
it in Paris. He came in person to present it, but left when 
he found that you were not down — rather pretty.” This 
was an inadequate description of the beautiful plaque that 
flashed and glittered from its velvet bed. 

“ It is lovely,” she said, but without warmth. “ Ought 
I accept — it is a very expensive present!” 

“Why not? Steppe is a good friend of ours; besides, 
he likes you,” said the doctor, not looking up from his 
plate. “ He would be terribly hurt if you didn’t take it 
— in fact, you cannot very well refuse.” 

She ran through her letters. There was a note from 
Ronnie, an invitation to a first night. He said nothing 
about her birthday. 

“ Oh, by the way, some flowers came. I told Dean to 
put them in your room. I have been puzzling my head to 
remember when I told him the date of your birthday. I 
suppose I must have done so, and, of course, he has the 
most colossal memory.” 

“Who, father?” 


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CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“Sault. He must have got up very early and gone to 
the market to get them. Very decent of him.” 

She went out of the room with an excuse and found her 
maid in the pantry. She had filled a big bowl with the 
roses. There were so many that only room for half of 
them had been found. 

“The others I will put in the doctor’s room, Miss,” said 
the maid. 

“ Put them all in my room, every one of them,” demanded 
Beryl. 

She selected three and fastened them in her belt before 
she went back to the breakfast room. The doctor laughed. 

“ I’ve never seen you wearing flowers before — Sault 
would be awfully pleased.” 

This she knew. That was why she wore them. 


XI 


Evie Colebrook came home at an unusually early hour 
and the girl on the bed looked up in surprise. 

“ I heard mother talking to somebody, but I had no idea 
it was you, Evie. What is the matter — has your swain 
another engagement?” 

“My swain, as you call him, is working tonight,” said 
Evie, “ and it is so hot that I thought I would come home 
and get into my pajamas.” 

“Mother has been talking about your eccentric tastes, 
with particular reference to pajamas,” said Christina. 
“ She thinks that pajamas are indelicate. In her young 
days girls weren’t supposed to have legs.” 

“Father wore pajamas.” 

“Father also drank. Mother thinks that the pajamas 
had something to do with it. She also thinks that book 
reading was a contributary cause.” 

“What terrible jaw-breaking words you use, Christina. 
Father did read a lot, didn’t he?” 

“Father was a student. He studied, amongst other 
things, race horses. Do you know who father was?” Evie 
stared at her expectantly. 

“He was a carpenter, wasn’t he?” 

“ He was the youngest son of the youngest son of a lord. 
Take that look off your face, Evie; there is no possibility 
73 


74 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


of our being the rightful heiresses of the old Hall. But it 
is true; he had a coat of arms.” 

“Then why did he marry mother?” 

“Why do people marry anybody?” demanded Christina. 
“Why did grandfather marry grandmother? Besides, why 
shouldn’t he have married mother? He was only a cabinet 
maker when he met her. She has told me so. And his 
father was a parson, and his mother the Honorable Mrs. 
Colebrook, the daughter of Lord Fanshelm. There is blue 
blood in your veins, Evie.” 

“But really, Christina,” Evie’s voice was eager and her 
eyes bright, “you are not fooling; is it true? It makes 
such an awful difference — ” 

Christina groaned. “My God, what have I said?” she 
asked dramatically. 

“But really, Christina?” 

“You are related so distantly to nobility that you can 
hardly see it without a telescope,” said Christina, “ I thought 
you knew. Mother used always to be talking about it at 
one time. My dear, what difference does it make?” 

Evie was silent. 

“A man doesn’t love a girl any more because she has a 
fifth cousin in the House of Lords; he doesn’t love her any 
less because her mother takes in laundry, and if her lowly 
origin stands in the way of his marriage, and he finds that 
really she is the great grandaughter of a princess, he can- 
not obliterate her intermediate relations.” 

“What’s intermediate’?” 

“Well, mother and father, and the parson who got into 
trouble through drinking, and his wife who ran away with 
a groom.” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


75 


Evie drew a long sigh. 

“Where is your swain?” she asked. “I don’t like that 
word ‘ swain,’ it sounds so much like ‘ swine 

“ I hope you will never see the resemblance any clearer,” 
said Christina. “My swain is working, too. I shouldn’t 
take off that petticoat, if I were you, Evie; he may come 
in and you can see your knickers through that dressing- 
gown.” 

“Christina!” 

“ I hate mentioning knickers to a pure-minded girl,” said 
Christina, fanning herself with a paper, “ but sisters have 
no secrets from one another. Ambrose, if that is who you 
mean, is very busy these days.” 

“Do you call him Ambrose to his face?” asked Evie 
curiously, and her sister snorted. 

“ Would you call Julius Caesar ‘ Bill ’ or ‘ Juley ’ to his 
face; of course not. But I can’t think of him as Ambrose 
Sault, Esquire, can I?” 

“ I don’t understand him,” said Evie. “ He seems so dull 
and quiet.” 

“ I’ll get him to jazz with you the next time you’re home 
early,” said Christina sardonically. 

“ Don’t be so silly. Naturally he isn’t very lively being 
so old.” 

“Old! He is lively enough to carry me downstairs as 
though I were a pillow and wheel me for hours at a time 
in that glorious chariot he got for me! And he is old 
enough — but what is the good of talking to you, Evie?” 

Presently her irritation passed and she laughed. “ Tell 
me the news of the great world, Evie; what startling hap- 
penings have there been in Knightsbridge?” 


76 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“ I can tell you something about Mr. Sault you don’t 
know,” Evie was piqued into saying. “ He has been in 
prison,” Christina turned on her side with a wince of pain. 

“Say that again.” 

“ He has been in prison.” A long pause. 

“ I hoped he had,” Christina said at last. “ I believe in 
imprisonment as an essential part of a man’s education — 
who told you?” 

“ I’m not going to say.” 

“Ronald Morelle — aha!” She pointed an accusing 
finger at the dumbfounded Evie. 

“ I know your guilty secret I The ‘ Ronnie ’ you babble 
about in your sleep is Ronnie Morelle!” 

“Wh — what makes you — it isn’t true — it is a damned 
lie — !” 

“ Don’t be profane, Evie. That is the worst of druggists’ 
shops, you pick up such awful language. Mother says you 
can’t work amongst pills without getting ideas in your head.” 

“ I never talk in my sleep — and I don’t know Ronnie 
Morelle — who is he?” 

Evie’s ignorance was badly assumed. Christina became 
very thoughtful. She lay with her hand under her cheek, 
her gray eyes searching her sister’s face. 

“Would Ronnie be impressed by your distant relation- 
ship with nobility?” she asked quietly. “Would it make 
such an awful difference if he knew about the coat of arms 
in father’s Bible? I don’t think it would. If it did, he 
isn’t worth worrying about. What is he?” 

“Didn’t Mr. Sault tell you?” asked Evie hotly. “He 
seems to spend his time gossiping about people who are a 
million times better than him — ” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


77 


“Than he,” murmured Christina, her eyes closed. 

“He is a nasty scandal-mongering old man! I hate 
him!” 

“ He didn’t say that Ronnie had been in prison,” Chris- 
tina’s voice was gentle. “ All that he said was that the only 
‘Ronnie’ he knew was Ronald Morelle. He did not even 
describe him or give him a character.” 

“How absurd, Christina! As if old Sault could give 
Mr. Morelle ‘ a character ’ ! One is a gentleman and the 
other is an old fossil!” 

“Old age is honorable,” said Christina tolerantly, “the 
arrogance of you babies!” 

“You’re half in love with him!” 

“ Wholly,” nodded Christina. “ I love his mind and his 
soul. I am incapable of any other kind of love. I never 
want a man to draw my flaming head to his shoulder and 
whisper, that until he met me, the world was a desert, and 
food didn’t taste good. It is because Ambrose Sault never 
paws me or holds my hand or kisses me on the brow in the 
manner of a father who hopes to be something closer, that 
I love him. And I shall love him through eternity. When 
I am dead and he is dead. And I want nothing more than 
this. If he were to die tomorrow, I should not grieve be- 
cause his flesh means nothing to me. The thing he gives 
me is everlasting. That is where I am better off than you, 
Evie. You have nothing but what you give yourself. You 
think he gives you these wonderful memories which keep 
you awake at nights. You think it is his love for you that 
thrills you. It isn’t that, Evie. Your love is the love of 
the martyr who finds an ecstatic joy in his suffering.” 

Groping toward understanding, Evie seized this illustra- 


78 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


tion. “ God loves the martyr — it isn’t one-sided,” she 
quavered and Christina nodded. 

“That is true, or it may be true. Does your god love 
you?” 

“ It is blasphemous to — to talk of Ronnie as God.” 

“God with a small ‘g’.” 

“ It is blasphemous anyhow. Ronnie does love me. He 
hasn’t silly and conventional ideas about — about love as 
most people have. He is much broader-minded, but he 
does love me. I know it. A girl knows when a man loves 
her.” 

“ That is one of the things she doesn’t know,” interrupted 
Christina. “ She knows when he wants her, but she doesn’t 
know how continually he will want her. He is unconven- 
tional, too? And broad-minded? The broad-minded are 
usually people who take a generous view of their own short- 
comings. Is he one of those unconventional souls who 
think that marriage is a barbarous ceremony?” 

“Who told you that?” Evie was breathless from sur- 
prise. 

“ It isn’t an unique view — broad-minded men often try 
to get narrow-minded girls to see that standpoint.” 

“You’re cynical — I hate cynical people,” said Evie, 
throwing herself on her bed, “ and you have all your ideas 
of life out of books, and the rotten people who come in here 
moaning about their troubles. You can’t believe writers 
— not some writers — there are some, of course, that give 
just a true picture of life — not in books, but in articles in 
the newspapers. They just seem to know what people are 
thinking and feeling, and express themselves wonderfully.” 

“Ah — so Ronnie writes for the newspapers, does he?” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


79 


Evie’s indignant retort was checked by a knock on the door. 

“That is Mr. Sault — can he come in?” 

“ I suppose so,” answered Evie grudgingly. She got off 
the bed and tied her dressing-gown more tightly. “ I don’t 
really show my legs through this kimono do I, Christina?” 

“Not unless you want to — come in!” 

Ambrose Sault looked tired. “ Just looked in before I 
went to my room,” he said. “ Good evening, Evie.” 

“Good evening, Mr. Sault.” 

Evie’s dressing-gown was wrapped so tightly as to give 
her a mummified appearance. 

“ I saw the osteopath today and I’ve arranged for him 
to come and talk to you tomorrow,” said Ambrose, sitting 
on the edge of the bed at the inviting gesture of Christina’s 
hand. 

“ I will parley with him,” she nodded. “ I don’t believe 
that he will make a scrap of difference. I’ve seen all sorts 
of doctors and specialists. Mother has a list of them — she 
is very proud of it.” 

“ I’m only hoping that this man may do you some good,” 
said Ambrose, rubbing his chin meditatively. “ I have seen 
some wonderful cures — in America. Even Dr. Merville be- 
lieves in them. He says that if you build a sky-scraper and 
the steel frame isn’t true, you cannot expect the doors to 
shut or the windows to open. I’m sorry I am so late, but 
the osteopath was dining out, and I had to wait until he 
came back. He hurt his ankle too, and that took time. I 
had to give him a rubbing. He is the best man in London. 
Dr. Duncan More.” 

She did not take her eyes from his face. Evie noticed 
this and discounted Christina’s earlier assertion. 


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“Will it cost a lot of money?” asked Christina. 

“Not much, in fact very little. The first examination is 
free. He doesn’t really examine you, you know. He will 
just feel your back, through your clothes. I asked him 
that, because I know how you dislike examinations. And if 
he doesn’t think that you can be treated, and that there is a 
chance of making you better, he won’t bother you any 
more.” 

“ I don’t believe in these quack doctors,” said Evie de- 
cidedly. “They promise all sorts of cures and they only 
take your money. We have a lot of those kind of remedies 
at the store, but Mr. Donker, the manager, says that they 
are all fakes — don’t tell me that an osteopath isn’t a 
medicine. I know that. He’s a sort of doctor, but I’ll bet 
you he doesn’t do any good.” 

“Cheer up. Job!” said Christina. “Faith is something. 
I suppose you mean well, but if I took any notice of you 
I’d give up the struggle now.” 

“ I dont want to depress you, you’re very unkind, Chris- 
tina! But I don’t think you ought to be too hopeful. It 
would be such an awful — what’s the word, come-down for 
you.” 

“Reaction,” said Sault and Christina together and they 
laughed. 

Sault went soon after and Evie felt that a dignified 
protest was called for. 

“There is no reason why you should make me look like 
a fool before Sault,” she said hurt. “Nobody would be 
happier than I should be if you got well. You know that. 
I’m not so sure that Mr. Sault is sincere — ” 

“What?” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


81 


Christina leaned upon her arm and her eyes were blazing. 

“You can say that he is old and ugly, if you like, and 
shabby and — anything. But don’t dare to say that, Evie 
— don’t dare to say that he isn’t sincere!” 

Evie lay awake for a long time that night. Christina 
was certainly a strange girl — and when she said she did 
not love Sault, she was not speaking the truth. That was 
just how she had felt, when Christina had hinted that 
Ronnie was not sincere. Only she had been too much of a 
a lady to lose her temper. About old Sault, too! What 
did he do for a living? She must ask Christina. 


XII 


Mr. Jan Steppe sat astride of a chair, his elbows on the 
back-rest, his saturnine face clouded with doubt. 

“ It certainly looks like a very ordinary safe to me, 
Sault. Do you mean to say that an expert could not get 
inside without disturbing the apparatus, huh?” 

“ Impossible,” replied Sault. “ I have filled the top 
chamber with water and I have tried at least a thousand 
combinations and every time I put the combination wrong, 
the safe has been flooded.” 

He twisted the dials on the face of the unpretentious 
repository, until he brought five letters, one under the 
other, in line with an arrow engraved on the safe door. 
He was a long time doing this and Steppe and the Greek 
watched hm. 

“Now!” said Sault. 

He turned the handle and the door swung open. The 
contents were two or three old newspapers and they were 
intact. 

“ What is the code word?” Steppe peered forward. “ Huh 
— why did you choose that word, Sault?” 

“ It is one of the very few words I can spell. Besides 
which, each letter is different.” 

“ It is not an inappropriate word,” said Moropulos 
amused, “ and one easy to remember. I intend pasting a 
82 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


83 


notice on the safe, Steppe, explaining frankly that unless 
the code word is used, and if any other combination of 
letters is tried, indeed, if the handle is turned, whilst the 
dial is set at any other word than the code word, the 
contents of the safe are destroyed. This may act as a 
deterrent to promiscuous burglars.” 

Steppe fingered his stubbly beard. “ That will be telling 
people that we have something in the safe that we want to 
keep hidden, huh?” he said dubiously, “a fool idea!” 

“ Everybody has something in his safe that he wants to 
keep hidden,” said the other coolly. 

“Now let me try — shut the door, Sault, that is right.” 
Steppe got out of the chair to spin the dials. “ Now we 
will suppose that I am some unauthorized person trying to 
find a way of opening the safe. So!” 

He turned the handle. 

“ Open it.” 

Sault worked at the dials and presently the door swung 
open. The newspapers were saturated and an inch of water 
at the bottom of the safe splashed out and into a bath-tub 
that Sault had put ready. 

“How about cutting into the safe? Suppose I am a 
burglar, huh? I burn out the lock or the side, and don’t 
touch the combination?” 

“ I have left a hole in one side of the safe,” said Sault, 
and pointed to a rubber plug that had been rammed into 
a small aperture. 

With a pair of pincers he pulled this out and a stream 
of water spurted forth and was mostly caught in the can 
he held. 

“That has the same effect,” he explained. “The water 


84 


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is pumped at a pressure into the hollow walls of the safe. 
The door is also hollow. When the water runs out, a 
float drops and releases the contents of the upper chamber. 
In the case of the door, the float operates the same spring 
that floods the safe when the handle is turned.” 

Steppe scratched his head. “Perfect,” he said. “You 
have experimented with the acid?” 

Sault nodded. “Both with sulphuric and hydrochloric,” 
he said. “I think hydrochloric is the better.” 

Steppe turned to the Greek. “You had better keep it 
here,” he said, and then: “Will it be ready today? I want 
to get those Brakpan letters out of the way. I needn’t tell 
you, Sault, that the code word must be known only to us 
three, huh? I don’t mind your knowing — but, you, Morop- 
ulos! You have got to cut out absinthe — d’ye hear? 
Cut it out — right out!” His growl became a roar that 
shook the room and Moropulos quailed. 

“ It is cut out,” he said sulkily. “ I am confining my 
boozing to the ‘ Parthenon ’. I’ve got to have some amuse- 
ment.” 

“You have it, if all I hear is true,” said Steppe grimly. 
“ Give Sault a hundred, Moropulos. It is worth it. What 
do you do with your money, Sault? You don’t spend it 
on fine clothes, huh?” 

“He goes about doing good,” said Moropulos, with a 
good-natured sneer. “ I met him in Kensington Gardens 
the other day, wheeling an interesting invalid. Who was 
she, Sault?” 

“My landlady’s daughter,” replied the other shortly. 

“ No business of yours, anyhow,” growled Steppe. 
“You’ve met Miss Merville, huh? Nice lady?” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


85 


“ Yes, a very nice lady,” said Sault steadily. He pushed 
back his long gray hair from his forehead. 

“Pretty, huh?” 

Sault nodded and was glad when his employer had 
departed. 

“Steppe is gone on that girl,” said Moropulos. “He’d 
have brained you, if you had said she wasn’t pretty!” 

“ He wouldn’t have brained me,” said Sault quietly. 

“ I suppose he wouldn’t. Even Steppe would have 
thought twice about lifting his hand to you. He’s a brute 
though, I saw him smash a man in the face once for calling 
him a liar — at a directors’ meeting. It was an hour before 
the poor devil knew what had happened. Yes, she is 
pretty. I see her riding some mornings, a young Diana — 
delicious. I’d give a lot to be in Steppe’s shoes.” 
“Why?” 

Moropulos rolled a cigarette with extraordinary rapidity 
and lit it. “Why? Well, if he wants her, he’ll have her. 
Steppe is that kind. I don’t suppose the doctor would have 
much to say in the matter. Or she, either.” 

Sault picked up an iron bar from the table. It was one 
of four that he had brought for the purpose of strengthen- 
ing the safe, and it was nearly an inch in diameter. 

“ I think she would have something to say,” he said, 
weighing the bar on the palms of his hands. 

And then, to the Greek’s amazement, he bent the steel 
into a V. He used no apparent effort; the bar just changed 
its shape in his hands as though it had been made of lead. 

“Why did you do that?” he gasped. 

“I don’t know,” said Ambrose Sault, and with a jerk 
brought the steel almost straight. 


86 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“Phew!” 

Moropulos took the bar from his hand. 

“ I shouldn’t like to annoy you seriously,” he said. He 
did not speak of Beryl again. 


XIII 


Evie Colebrook had found a note awaiting her at the 
store on the morning of the day she came home early. It 
consisted of a few words scrawled on a plain card, and 
had neither address nor signature: 

‘‘Dearest girl: I shall not he able to see you tonight. I 
have a long article to write and shall probably be working 
through the night, when your dear and precious eyes are 
closed in sleep. Your lover. 

She had the card under her pillow when she slept. 

“ Are you sure you aren’t too busy,” said Beryl when she 
came down, a radiant figure, to the waiting Ronnie. “ Now 
that you have taken up a literary career, I picture you as 
being rushed every hour of the day.” 

“ Sarcasm is wasted on me,” Ronnie displayed his beauti- 
ful teeth. “ Unflattering though it be, I admit to a slump 
in my literary stock. I have had no commissions for a 
week.” 

“ And I’m not taking you away from any of those beauti- 
ful friends of yours?” 

“Beryl!” he murmured reproachfully. “You know that 
I have no friends — if by friends you mean girl friends.” 

“ It is my mad jealousy which makes me ask these ques- 
tions,” she said quizzically, “come along, Ronnie, we will 
be late.” 


87 


88 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


What the play was about, Beryl never quite remembered. 
Ronnie, sitting in the shade of the curtains, was more in- 
terested in his companion. It was strange that he had 
known her ever since she was a child and he a schoolboy, 
and yet had never received a true impression of her beauty. 
He watched her through the first act, the tilt of her chin, 
the quick smile. 

“Beryl, you ought to be painted,” he said in the first 
interval. “ I mean by a portrait painter. You look so 
perfectly splendid that I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” 

The color came slowly and, in the dim light of the box, 
a man who had not been looking for this evidence of her 
pleasure, would have seen nothing. 

“That is a little less subtle than the usual brand of 
flattery you practice, isn’t it, Ronnie? Or is your artless- 
ness really an art that conceals art?” 

“I’m not flattering you — I simply speak as I feel. I 
never realized your loveliness until tonight.” She straight- 
ened up and laughed. 

“You think I’m crude — I suppose I am. You do not 
say that I am keeping my hand in, though you probably 
think so. I admit I have had all sorts of flirtations, in 
fact, I have been rather a blackguard in that way, and of 
course I’ve said nice things to girls — buttered them and 
played to their vanity. But if I were trying to make love 
to you, I should be a little more subtle, as you say. I 
should imply my compliments. It is just because my — 
my spasm is unpremeditated that I find myself at a loss 
for words. There is no sense in my making love to you, 
anyway, supposing that you would allow me. I can’t marry 
— I simply won’t marry until I have enough money and I 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


89 


haven’t nearly enough. If in four years’ time the money 
doesn’t come — well then, I’ll risk being a pauper, but the 
girl will have to know.” 

She said nothing. Here was an unexpected side to his 
character. He had some plan of life and a code of sorts. 
If she had been better acquainted with that life of his, 
which she so far suspected, she would have grown alert 
when Ronnie unmasked his way of retreat. She was sur- 
prised at his virtuous reluctance to make a woman share 
his comparative poverty — she should have been suspicious 
when he fixed a time limit to his bachelorhood. It was not 
like Ronnie to plan so far in advance, that she knew; it 
might have occurred to her that he was definitely excusing 
the postponement of marriage. As it was, she was seeing 
him in a more favorable light. Ronnie desired that she 
should. His instinct in these matters was uncannily accu- 
rate. 

“ It was worth coming out with you, if only to hear your 
views on matrimony,” was all the comment she made. 

“ I don’t know — ” he looked gloomily into the audito- 
rium, “ in many ways I have been regretting it. That 
doesn’t sound gallant, but I am not in a mood for nice 
speeches — you think I am? I did not mean to be nice 
when I said that you were lovely, any more than I wish to 
be nice to Titian when I praise his pictures. Beryl, I’ve 
been fond of you for years. I suppose I’ve been in love 
with you, ^though I’ve never wanted to be. That is the truth. 
I’ve recognized just how unfair it would be, to chain a 
woman like you to a rake — I’m not sparing myself — like 
me. God knows whether I could be constant. In my 
heart I know that if I had you, there could be no other 


90 


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woman in the world for me — an intimate knowledge of 
my own character makes me skeptical.” 

Beryl was spared the necessity for replying. The curtain 
went up on the second act just then. She knew he was 
looking at her, and turned in her chair to hide her face. 
Her heart was beating tumultuously. She was trembling. 
She was a fool — a fool. He meant nothing — he was a 
liar; lied as readily as other men spoke the truth. That 
frankness of his was assumed — he was acting. Versed in 
the weaknesses of women, he had chosen the only approach 
that would storm her citadel. She told herself these truths, 
her reason battling in a last desperate stand against his 
attack. And yet — why should he not be sincere? For the 
first time he had admitted the unpleasant charges which 
hitherto he had denied. He surely could not expect to 
make her love him more by the confession of his infi- 
delities? 

If he had followed up his talk, had made any attempt 
to carry on the conversation from the point where he left 
it, she would have been invincible. But he did not. When 
the curtain went down again, he was more cheerful and 
was seemingly interested only in the people he recognized 
in the stalls. He asked her if she would mind if he left 
her. He wanted to smoke and to meet some men he 
knew. 

She assented and was disappointed. They had a long 
wait between these two acts, and as he had returned to the 
box after a shorter interval than she had expected, there 
was plenty of time, had he so wished, to have resumed his 
conversation. He showed no such desire, and it was she 
who began it. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


91 


You puzzle me, Ronnie. I can’t see — if you loved me, 
how you could do some of the things you have done. You 
won’t be so commonplace as to tell me that you wanted to 
keep me out of your mind and that that form of amusement 
helped you to forget me.” 

“ No,” he admitted, “ but. Beryl dear, need we discuss 
it? I don’t know why I spoke to you as I did. I felt like 
it.” 

“ But I am going to discuss it,” she insisted. “ I want 
my mind set in order. It is overthrown for the moment. 
What prevented you from keeping me as a friend all this 
time — a real close friend, if you loved me? Oh, Ronnie, 
I do want to be fair to you even at the risk of being shame- 
less, as I am now. Why could you not have asked me? 
Even if it meant waiting?” 

He looked down at the floor. “ I have some sense of 
decency left,” he said in a low voice. And then the curtain 
went up. 

Beryl looked at her program. The play had four acts; 
there was another interval. He did not leave her this time; 
nor did he wait for her to begin. 

“ I’m going to be straight with you. Beryl,” he said, “ I 
want you — I adore you. But I cannot commit you to an 
engagement which may adversely affect your father and 
incidentally myself. I am being brutally selfish and mer- 
cenary, but I am going to say what I think. You’ll be 
amused and perhaps horrified when I tell you that Steppe 
is very keen on you.” 

She was neither amused nor horrified; but on the other 
hand, if Ronnie Morelle realized that in his invention he 
had accidentally hit upon the truth, he would not have 


92 


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been amused and most certainly terror would have struck 
him dumb. If Beryl had only said what she was of a mind 
to say, that she had learned from her father that Steppe 
was in love with her, she might have silenced him. But 
she said nothing. Ronnie’s explanation seemed natural — 
knowing Ronnie. 

“ I’d sooner see you dead than married to him,” he said 
vehemently, “ but none of us can say that now. We are in 
a very tight place. Steppe could ruin your father with a 
gesture — he could very seriously inconvenience me.” Here 
he was much in earnest, and the girl, with a cold feeling at 
her heart, knew he spoke the truth. 

“But that time will pass. We shall weather the storm 
which is shrieking round our ears — you don’t read the 
financial papers — you’re wise. You see what might hap- 
pen, Beryl?” 

Beryl nodded. She was ridiculously happy. 

“A great play, don’t you think so. Miss Merville?” It 
was Sir John Maxton who had pushed through the crowd 
in the vestibule, 

“ Splendid,” she said. 

“Ronnie, did you like it?” 

“ I never heard a word,” said Ronnie, and somehow that 
statement was so consonant with his new honesty that it 
confirmed her in a faith which was as novel. 

The car carried them through the crowded circus and into 
the quietude of Piccadilly. 

“ Oh, Ronnie — I am so happy — ” 

His arm slipped round her and his lips pressed fiercely 
against her red mouth. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


93 


“Why can’t you sleep?” asked the drowsy Christina, as 
the girl lit her candle for the second time. 

“I don’t know — I’m having such beastly dreams,” said 
Evie fretfully. 


BOOK THE SECOND 


I 

The step of Ambrose Sault was light and there was a 
buoyancy in his mien when he came into Mrs. Colebrook’s 
kitchen, surprising that good lady with so unusual an 
appearance at an hour of the day when she was taking her 
afternoon siesta. 

“Lord, how you startled me!” she said, “the ostymopat 
came this morning. A stout gentleman with whiskers. Very 
nice, too, and American. But bless you, Mr. Sault, he’ll 
never do any good to Christina, though I wish he could, 
for I’m up and down those blessed stairs from the moment 
I get up to the moment I go to bed. He’ll never cure her. 
She’s had ten doctors and four specialists, and she’s been 
three times to St. Mary’s hospital; to say nothing of the 
Evelyna when she was a child and fell out of the perambu- 
lator that did it. Ten doctors and four specialists — they’re 
doctors, too, in a manner of speaking, so you might say 
fourteen.” 

Sault never interrupted his landlady, although his for- 
bearance meant, very often, a long period of waiting. 

“Can I see Christina, Mrs. Colebrook?” he begged. 

“ Certainly you can, you needn’t ask me. She’ll be glad 
to see you,” said Mrs. Colebrook conventionally. “ I 
thought of going up myself, but she has always got those 
94 


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95 


books. Do you think so much reading is good for her — ?” 

“ Fm sure it is.” 

“But — well, I don’t know. I’ve never read anything but 
the Sunday papers, and they’ve got enough horrors in ’em 
— but they actually happened. It isn’t guesswork like it is 
in books. I never read a book through in my life. My 
husband — ! Why, when he passed away, there was enough 
books in the house to fill a room. He’d sooner read than 
work at any time. He was a bit aristocratic in his way.” 

Sault had come to understand that “ aristocratic ” did 
not stand, as Mrs. Colebrook applied the word, for gentle- 
ness of birth, but for a loftiness of demeanor in relation to 
labor. 

He made his escape up the stairs. Christina was not 
reading. She lay on her back, her hands lightly folded, 
and she was inspecting the end bed-rail with a fixity of 
gaze that indicated to Ambrose how far she was from 
Walter Street and the loud little boys who played beneath 
her window. 

“I have nothing for you today — I haven’t been baking.” 

She patted the bed and he sat down. 

“The osteopath has been, I suppose mother told you? 
She has the queerest word for him, ‘ ostymopat ’. Yes, he 
came and saw, or rather, he prodded in a gentle, harmless 
kind of way, but I fancy that my spine has conquered. He 
didn’t say very much, but seemed to be more interested in 
the bones of my neck and shoulders than he was in the 
place where it hurts. He wouldn’t tell me anything, I 
suppose he didn’t want to make me feel miserable. Poor, 
kind soul — after all the uncomplimentary things that have 
been said about my spinal column!” 


96 


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“ He told me,” said Ambrose, and something in his face 
made her open her eyes wide. 

“What did he say — please tell me — was it good?” 

He nodded and a beatific smile lightened his face. 

“You can be cured; completely cured. You will walk 
in a year or maybe less. He thinks it will take six months 
to manipulate the bones into their place; he talked about 
‘ breaking down ’ something, but he didn’t mean that he 
would hurt you. He just meant that he would have to 
remove — I don’t know what it is, but it would be a gradual 
process and you would feel nothing. He wants your mother 
to put you into a sort of thin overall before he comes.” 

He lugged a parcel from his pocket. “ I bought one — 
a smock of thick silk. I thought you had better have silk. 
He works at you through it, and it makes his work easier 
for him and for you if — anyhow, I got silk, Christina.” 

Her eyes were shining, but she did not look at him. “ It 
doesn’t seem possible,” she said softly, “ and it is going to 
cost a lot of money — cost you. The silk overall is lovely, 
but I wouldn’t mind if I wore sackcloth. You great soul!” 

She caught his hand in both of hers and gripped it with 
a strength that surprised him. 

“ Evie is quite sure that I am in love with you, Ambrose 
— I lied to her when I said I never called you Ambrose. 
And, of course, we are in love with one another, but in a 
way that poor Evie doesn’t understand. If I was normal, 
I suppose I’d love you in her way — poor Ambrose, you 
would be so embarrassed.” 

She laughed quietly. 

“ Love is a great disturbance,” said Ambrose, “ I think 
Evie means that kind.” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


97 


“Were you ever in love that way? I have never been. 
I think I love you as I should love my child, if I had one. 
If you say that you love me as a mother, I shall be 
offended, Ambrose. Do you think it will really happen — 
will it cost very much?” 

“A pound a visit, and he is coming every day except 
Sunday.” 

Christina made a calculation and the immensity of the 
sum left her horror-stricken. 

“A hundred and fifty pounds!” she cried. “Oh, Am- 
brose — how can you? I won’t have the treatment. It is 
certain to fail — I won’t, Ambrose!” 

“I’ve paid a hundred on account. He didn’t want to 
take it, but I said I would only let him come on those 
terms. I wasn’t speaking the truth — I’d have let him 
come on any terms. So you see, Christina, I’ve paid, and 
you must be treated!” 

“Hold my hand, Ambrose — and don’t speak a word. 
I’m going for a long walk — I haven’t dared walk before.” 

She resumed her gaze upon the bed-rail and he sat in 
silence whilst she dreamed. 

Evie returned at ten o’clock that night and heard Chris- 
tina singing as she mounted the stairs. “ Enter, sister, has 
mother told you that I am practically a well woman?” 

“ Don’t put too high hopes — ” 

“Shut up! I’m a well woman I tell you. In a year I 
shall walk into your medicine shop and sneer at you as I 
pass. Have you brought home any candy? ‘Sweets’ is 
hopelessly vulgar, and I like the American word better. 
And you look bright and sonsy. Did you see the god?” 

“I wish you wouldn’t use religious words, Christina, 


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just when we are going to bed, too. I wonder you’re not 
afraid. Yes, I saw my boy.” 

“Have you a boy?” in simulated surprise. “ Evie, you 
are a surprising child. Whom does he take after?” 

“ Really, I think you are indecent,” said her sister, 
shocked. “You know perfectly well I mean — Ronnie.” 

“ Oh, is he the ‘ boy ’? To you girls everything that raises 
a hat or smokes a cheap cigar is strangely boyish. Well, 
is he nearly dead from his midnight labors?” 

“ I’d like to see you write a long article for the news- 
papers,” said Evie witheringly. 

“ I wish you could. You may even see that. Tell me 
about him, Evie. What is he like — what sort of a house 
has he?” She waited. 

“He lives in a flat, and, of course. I’ve never seen it. 
You don’t imagine that I would go into a man’s flat alone, 
do you?”’ 

Christina sighed. “There are points about the bour- 
geoisie mind which are admirable,” she said. “ What does 
‘bourgeoisie’ mean? The bourgeoisie are the people who 
have names instead of numbers to their houses; they catch 
the nine twenty-five to town and go home by the five seven- 
teen. They go to church at least once on Sunday and their 
wives wear fascinators and patronize the dress circle.” 

“You talk such rubbish, Christina. I can’t make head 
or tail of it half the time. I don’t see what it has got to do 
with my not going in to Ronnie’s flat. It wouldn’t be 
respectable.” 

“Why didn’t I think of that word?” wailed Christina. 
“ Evie.” 

“Huh?” said Evie, her mouth full of pins and in an un- 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


99 


conscious imitation of one who, did she but know it, held 
her soul in the hollow of his hands. 

“Where do you meet your lad — I simply can’t say 
‘boy’?” 

“ Oh, anywhere,” said Evie vaguely. “ We used to meet 
a lot in the park. As a matter of fact, that is where I first 
saw him, but now he doesn’t go to the park. He says the 
crowd is vulgar and it is you know, Christina; why I’ve 
heard men addressing meetings and saying that there wasn’t 
a God! And talking about the king most familiarly. It 
made my blood boil!” 

“ I don’t suppose the king minds, and I’m sure God only 
laughed.” 

“ Christina!” 

“Well, why not? What’s the use of being God if He 
hasn’t a sense of humor? He has everything He wants, and 
that is one of the first blessings He would give Himself. 
Where do you meet Ronnie, Evie?” 

“ Sometimes I have dinner with him, and sometimes we 
just meet at the tube station and go to the pictures.” Chris- 
tina pinched her chin in thought. 

“ He knows that girl who came to see you. Miss Merville. 
I told him about her visit, and he asked me if she knew 
that I was a friend of his, and whether she had seen me. 
She rather runs after him, I think. He doesn’t say so, he 
is too much a gentleman. I can’t imagine Ronnie saying 
anything unkind.” 

“ But he sort of hinted ” suggested Christina. 

“You are uncharitable, Christina! Nothing Ronnie does 
is right in your eyes. Of course he didn’t hint. It is the 
way he looks, when I speak about her. I know that he 


100 


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doesn’t like her very much. He admitted it, because, just 
after we had been talking about her, he said that I was the 
only girl he had ever met who did not bore him — unutter- 
ably. His very words!” 

“ That was certainly convincing evidence,” said Christina, 
and her sister arrested the motion of her hair brush to look 
suspiciously in her direction. You could never be sure 
whether Christina was being nice or unpleasant. 


II 


Ronald Morelle had once been the victim of a demoral- 
izing experience. He had awakened in time to hear the 
church clock strike nine, and for the space of a few seconds, 
he had suffered the tortures of hell. Why, he never dis- 
covered. He had heard the clock strike nine since then, in 
truth he had been specially wakened by Frangois the very 
next morning, in the expectation that the tolling of the bell 
would recall to his mind the cause of his abject fear. But 
not again did the chimes aflfect him. He had made a very 
thorough examination of his mind in the Freudian method, 
but could trace no connection between his moments of terror 
and the sound of a bell. “A nightmare, as an unpleasant 
dream is called, may be intensively vivid, yet from the 
second of waking leaves no definite memory behind it,” 
said a lesser authority. 

He had to rest content with that. He had other matters 
to think about. Steppe, an unusual visitor, came to his flat 
one morning. Ronnie was in his dressing-gown, reading 
the morning newspapers, and he leaped up with a curious 
sense of guilt when the big man was announced. 

“ You dabble in press work, Morelle, don’t you?” Ronnie 
acknowledged his hobby. 

“ Do you know anybody in Fleet Street — editors and 
such like?” 

“I know a few — why, Mr. Steppe?” 

101 


102 


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Steppe lit a cigar and strolling across the room looked 
out of the window. He carried the air of a patron to such 
an extent that Ronnie felt an interloper, an uncomfortable 
feeling to a man still in pajamas. 

“ Because weVe got to beat up a few friendly press 
criticisms,” said Steppe at last. “ The financial papers are 
raising merry hell about the Klein River diamond flotation 
and we have to get our story in somehow or other. You 
don’t want to be called a swindling company promoter, 
huh? Wouldn’t look good, huh?” 

“ I don’t see how I come into it,” said Ronnie. 

“You don’t, huh? Of course you don’t! Have you ever 
seen anything but a shop girl’s ankles? You — don’t see! 
You’re a director, so is Merville. You’ve drawn directors’ 
fees. Vm not a director — it doesn’t matter a damn to me 
what they say.” 

The name of Jan Steppe seldom appeared amongst the 
officers or directors of a company. He had his nominees 
who voted according to the orders they received. 

“What makes it so almighty bad is that I was floating 
the Midwell Traction Corporation next week. We’ll have 
to put that back now, but it will keep. What are you going 
to do?” 

“ I don’t know exactly what to do,” said Ronnie. It was 
the first time he had ever been called upon to justify his 
directors’ fees. “ I know a few men — but I doubt if I can 
do anything. Fleet Street is a little rigid in these things.” 

“ Get an article in somewhere,” ordered Steppe peremp- 
torily. “Take this line; That we bought the Klein River 
Mine on the report of the best engineer in South Africa. 
We did. There’s no lie about that. Mackenzie — he’s in a 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


103 


lunatic asylum now. And the report was in his own hand- 
writing, so there won’t be a copy. And you needn’t men- 
tion that he is in a lunatic asylum, most people think he is 
dead.” 

“ Didn’t he write to us complaining that we only put an 
extract from his report into the prospectus?” 

“Never mind about that!” snarled Steppe. “I didn’t 
come here for a conversation. He did write; said that we’d 
published a sentence away from the context. He didn’t 
think I was going to put the worst into the prospectus, did 
he? What he said was, that the Klein River Mine would 
be one of the richest in South Africa if we could get over 
difficulties of working, which he said were insuperable. He 
was right. They are. The only way to work that mine is 
with deep sea divers! Now, have this right, Morelle, and 
try to forget Flossie’s blue eyes and Winnie’s golden hair. 
This is business. Your business. You’ve got to take that 
report (Moropulos will give it to you, but you mustn’t take 
it from the office) and extract all that is good in it. At 
the general meeting you have to produce your copy and 
read it. If anybody wants to see the original, refer ’em to 
Mackenzie. You’ve got to make Klein River look alive and 
you haven’t to defend it, d’ye hear me? ^ You’ve got to 
handle that mine as though you wished it was yours, huh? 
No defence! The hundred-pound shares are at twelve; 
you’ve got to make ’em look worth two hundred. And it 
is dead easy if you go the right way about it. Ask any 
pickpocket. The easiest way to steal a pocketbook is to 
go after the man that’s just lost his watch. Make ’em think 
that the best thing they can do is to buy more Klein Rivers 
and hold them, huh? You’ve got to think it, or you won’t 


104 


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say it. Get this meeting through without a fuss, and there’s 
a thousand for you.” 

“ I’ll try,” said Ronnie. 

Yet, it was in no confident mood that he faced a hall-full 
of enraged stockholders a week later. The meeting was 
described as “noisy”; it ended in the passing of a vote of 
confidence in the directors. Ronnie was elated; no other 
man but Steppe could have induced him to present a forged 
document to a meeting of critical stockholders, and when 
Klein Rivers rose the next day to seventeen, he was not as 
enthusiastic as Dr. Merville, who ’phoned his congratula- 
tions on what was undoubtedly a remarkable achievement. 

He spoke of nothing else that day, and Beryl basked in 
reflected approval. Her father knew nothing. He won- 
dered why Ronnie, whom he did not like overmuch, called 
with greater frequency. He had too large an experience 
of life to harbor any misconception as to his second cousin’s 
private character, although he would, in other circum- 
stances, have passively accepted him as a son-in-law. Men 
take a very tolerant view of other men’s weaknesses. Th^ 
theory that the world holds a patch of arable land reserved! 
for young men to put under wild oats, and that without 
exciting the honest farmers whose lands adjoin, is a theory 
that dies hard as the cultivated fields increase in number. 

He did not regard Ronnie as a marrying man, and with 
the exception of a few moments of uneasiness he had had 
when he noted Beryl’s preference for his associate’s society, 
he found nothing objectionable in the new interest which 
Ronnie had found. But he wished he wouldn’t call so often. 

Dr. Merville might, and did, dismiss Ronnie’s errant 
adventures with a philosophical sua cuique voluptas — he 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


105 


found himself taking a more and more lenient view of 
Ronald Morelle’s character. A man is never himself until 
he is idle. Successions of nurses, schoolmasters and pro- 
fessors shepherd him into the service of his fellows, and 
the conventions of his profession, no less than a natural 
desire to stand well with the friends and clients he has 
acquired in his progress, assist him in maintaining some- 
thing of the appearance and mental attitude which his 
tutors have formed in him. Many a man has gone through 
life being some other man who has impressed him, or some 
great teacher who has imparted his personality into his 
plastic pupil. 

The first instinct of a man lost in the desert is to discard 
his clothes. The doctor, wandering in this financial waste, 
began to discard his principles. He was unconscious of the 
sacrifice. If, in the course of his professional life he had 
made a mistaken diagnosis, or blundered in an operation, 
he would have known. If at school he had committed some 
error, he would have been corrected. Now, though this he 
did not realize, he was, for the first time in his life, free 
from any other authority than his own will and conscience. 
He fell into a common error when he believed, as he did, 
that standards of honor and behavior are peculiar to the 
.trades in which they are exercised and that right and wrong 
are adaptable to circumstances. 

“ Ronnie is coming to dinner tonight, isn’t he? You 
know I shall not be here, my dear? I promised Steppe I 
would spend the evening with him. I wish you would tell 
Ronnie how pleased we all are at his very fine speech. I 
never dreamed that he had it in him — Steppe talks of 
making him chairman of the company.” 


106 


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“ I thought he was that.” 

“No — er — no. The chairman is a man named Howitt 
— a very troublesome fellow. Steppe bought him out be- 
fore the meeting. Ronnie was only acting chairman.” 

“I thought you were a director, daddy?” She was curi- 
ous on this point and had waited an opportunity of asking 
him why he had not been present at the meeting. 

“ I am — in a sense — but my nerves are in such a state 
just now, that I simply couldn’t bear the strain of listening 
to a crowd of noisy louts jabbering stupid criticism. The 
company is in a perfectly sound position. You can see 
that from the way the stock has jumped up in the past few 
days. These city people aren’t fools, you know.” 

She wondered if it was the “city people” who were 
buying the stock or were responsible for the encouraging 
rise in Klein River Diamonds. More likely, she thought, 
the buyers were the people who knew very little about stock 
exchange transactions. 

Ronnie arrived as the doctor was going out, and they 
met in the street before the door. “ It was nothing,” said 
Ronnie modestly, “they were rather rowdy at first, but 
after I had had a little talk with them — you know how 
sheep-like these fellows are. I discovered from Steppe 
who was likely to be the leader of the opposition, and I 
saw him before the meeting. Of course, he was difficult 
and full of threats about appointing a committee of in- 
vestigation. However — ” 

“Yes, yes, you did splendidly — you’ll find Beryl waiting 
for you. Er — Ronnie.” 

“ Yes?” 

“Don’t unsettle her — she is in an enquiring mood just 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


107 


now, especially about the companies and things. I shouldn’t 
talk too much about Klein Rivers. She is a very shrewd 
girl. Not that there is anything about Klein Rivers that 
is discreditable.” 

“ I never talk business to Beryl,” said Ronnie. Which 
was nearly true. 

He found her i];i the drawing-room and took her into 
his arms. She was so dear and fragrant. So malleable in 
his skilled hands now that the barrier of her suspicion had 
been broken down. 


Ill 


In the middle of the night, Ambrose Sault turned in his 
narrow bed and woke. He was a light sleeper and the party 
walls of the tiny house were thin. 

He got out of bed, switched on the light of a portable 
electric lamp which stood within reach of his hand and, 
thrusting his feet into slippers, opened the door. The 
house was silent, but a crack of light showed under Chris- 
tina’s door. 

“Are you awake, Christina?” he asked softly. “Is any- 
thing wrong?” 

“Nothing, Mr. Sault.” 

It was not Christina. There was no hint of tears in her 
voice. Ambrose went back to his bed, and to sleep. He 
knew that he had not been mistaken either as to the sound 
that had awakened him or the direction from whence it 
came. For one terrific moment he had thought it was 
Christina and that the new treatment which had already 
commenced was responsible for the loud sobs which had 
disturbed his sleep. He was sorry for Evie. He was easily 
sorry. A cat writhing in the middle of the street, where 
a too swift motor-car had passed, wrung his heart. A child 
crying in pain made him sweat. When he saw a man and 
a woman quarrelling in this vile neighborhood, he rushed 
from the scene lest the woman be struck. 

“What did he get — up for,” whispered Evie, “he is 
always — interfering.” 


108 


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109 


“The wonder to me is that the whole street isn’t up,” 
said Christina. “What is the matter, Evie?” 

“I don’t know — I’m miserable.” Evie flounced over in 
her bed. “ I just had to cry. I’m sorry.” 

Christina was very serious; she too had been awakened 
by the hysterical outburst. It carried a meaning to her 
that she had the courage to face. 

“There is nothing wrong, is there, Evie?” No answer. 

“ I can’t be all the help to you that I should like, darling, 
and I am a pig to you at times. But I get tetchy myself, 
and it w a bore lying here day after day. You would tell 
me if there was anything wrong, wouldn’t you?” 

“Yes,” whispered the girl. 

“ I mean, really wrong. If it was anything that — affected 
your health. Nothing would make you wrong in my eyes. 
I should just love you and help you all I could. You know 
that. It isn’t wise to keep some secrets, Evie, not if you 
know that there is somebody who loves you well enough to 
take half your burden from you.” 

“ I don’t know what you’re driving at,” said Evie in a 
fret, “you don’t mean — ? I’m a virgin, if that is what 
you mean,” she said crudely. 

Christina snorted. “ Then what in hell are you snivelling 
about?” she demanded savagely. She was not unreasonably 
irritated. 

“I haven’t — seen — Ronnie — for a week!” sobbed the 
girl. 

“I wish to God you’d never seen him,” snapped Chris- 
tina and wished she hadn’t, for the next minute Evie was 
in bed with her, in her arms. 

“I’m so unhappy — I wish I hadn’t met him, too — I 


110 


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know that it isn’t right, Chris — I know it isn’t — I know 
I shall never be happy. He is so much above me — and 
I’m so ignorant — such — a — such a shop girl.” 

Christina cuddled the slim figure and kissed her damp 
face. “You’ll get over that, Evie,” she said soothingly. 

“But I love him so!” 

“You don’t really — you are too young, Evie — you can’t 
test your feelings. I was reading today about some people 
who live in Australia, natives, who think that a sort of sour 
apple is the most lovely fruit in the world. But it is only 
because they haven’t any other kind of fruit. If you go to 
a poor sort of store to buy a dress, you get to think the 
best they have in stock is the best you can buy anywhere. It 
takes a lot of courage to walk out of that shop and find 
another. After a while you are sure and certain that the 
dress they show you is lovely. It is only when you put it 
against the clothes that other women have bought from the 
better shops, that you see how old-fashioned and tawdry 
and what an ugly color it is.” She waited for an answer, 
but Evie was asleep. 

Ambrose came home early the next day. Every other 
afternoon he took Christina to Kensington Gardens. He 
kept the long spinal carriage in a stable and spent at least 
half an hour in cleaning and polishing the wheels and lac- 
quered panels of the “chariot”. 

“ Shut the door, Ambrose.” He obeyed. 

“You heard Evie crying? It was nothing. She hasn’t 
seen her man for a week and she was a little upset. I 
promised her to tell you that it was all your imagination, 
if you asked. Poor Evie doesn’t know that you wouldn’t 
ask anyhow.” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


111 


“Is it Ronald Morelle, Christina?” 

She nodded and, seeing his face lengthen, she asked: “Is 
he a good man, Ambrose? Do you think there is any 
danger to Evie?” 

“ I don’t know him personally,” Ambrose was speaking 
very slowly. “ No, I don’t know him. Once or twice I 
have seen him but I have never spoken. Moropulos says 
he is rotten. That was the word he used. There have been 
one or two nasty incidents. Moropulos likes talking about 
that sort of thing — what was that word you told me, Chris- 
tina? It is not like me to forget? It describes a man with 
a bad curiosity. 

“ Prurient?” 

“ That is the word. Moropulos has that kind of mind. 
He has books — all about beastly subjects. And pictures. 
He says that Ronald Morelle is bad. The worst man he 
has ever met. He wasn’t condemning him, you understand. 
In fact, he was admiring him. Moropulos would.” 

Christina was plucking at her underlip pensively. 

“Poor Evie!” she said. “She thinks she is in love with 
him. He is a beautiful dream to her, naturally, because 
she has never met anybody like him. I wish he had made 
the mistake of thinking she was easy, the first time he met 
her. That would have ended it. What I am afraid of, is 
that he does understand her, and is wearing down her re- 
sistance gradually. What am I to do, Ambrose?” 

Years before, when he was working in a penal settlement, 
Ambrose Sault had bruised and cut his chin. He had been 
working in tapioca fields, and the prison doctor had warned 
him not to touch the healing wound with his hand for 
fear of poisoning it. From this warning he had acquired 


112 


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a curious trick. In moments of doubt he rubbed his chin 
with the knuckle of a finger. Christina had often seen him 
do this and had found in the gesture sure evidence of his 
perplexity. 

“You can’t advise me?” she said, reading the sign, “I 
didn’t think you would be able to.” 

“ I can go to Morelle and warn him,” suggested Sault, 
“but that means trouble — here. I don’t want to make 
mischief.” 

She nodded. “Evie would never forgive us,” she said 
with a sigh. “ I’m ready, Ambrose.” 

He stooped and lifted her from the bed, as though, as 
she once described it, she were of no greater weight than 
a pillow. 

Mr. Jan Steppe was dressing for dinner when Sault was 
announced. “Tell him to wait — no, send him up.” 

“Here, sir?” asked the valet. 

“Where else, you fool, huh?” 

Sault came into the dressing-room and waited until his 
employer had fixed a refractory collar. 

“ Don’t wait, you.” The valet retired discreetly. 

“Well, Sault, what do you want?” 

“The daughter of the woman I lodge with knows Mo- 
relle,” said Ambrose Sault briefly. “ She’s a pretty child 
and I don’t want anything to happen to her that will neces- 
sitate my taking Morelle and breaking his neck.” 

Steppe looked round with a scowl. “‘Necessitate’? 
You talk like a damned professor. I’m not Morelle’s 
keeper. It is enough trouble to keep him up to the scratch 
in other matters. As to breaking his neck. I’ve got some- 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


113 


thing to say to that, Sault, huh?” He faced the visitor, a 
terrifying figure, his attitude a threat and a challenge. 

“You might have to identify him,” said Sault thought- 
fully, “that is true.” 

Steppe’s face went red. “Now see here, Sault. I’ve 
never had a fight with you and I don’t want to, huh? 
You’re the only one of the hunch that is worth ten cents 
as a man, but I’ll allow nobody to dictate to me — nobody, 
whether he is a girl-chasing dude or an escaped convict. 
Get that right! I’ve smashed bigger men and stronger men 
than you, by God!” 

“ You’ll not smash me,” said Sault coolly, “ and you 
needn’t smash Morelle. I’m telling you that I won’t have 
that girl hurt. A word from you will send Morelle crawling 
at her feet. I don’t know him, but I know of him. He’s 
that kind.” 

Steppe glared. “You’re telling me, are you?” he 
breathed. “You think you’ve got me because you’re in- 
dispensable now that you know about the safe. But I’ll 
have another safe and another word. D’ye hear? I’ll 
show you that no damned lag can bully me!” 

The other smiled. “ You know that the code is safe with 
me. That’s my way. I would break Morelle or you for 
the matter of that — kill you with my hands before your 
servant could come — but the code would be with me. You 
know that, too.” He met, had not feared to meet, the fury 
of Steppe’s eyes and presently the big man turned away 
with a shrug. 

“ You might,” he said, speaking more to himself than 
to Ambrose Sault. “ One of these days I’ll try you out. 
I’m not a weakling and I’ve beaten every man that stood 


114 


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up to me.” He looked round at the visitor and the anger 
had gone from his face. 

“ I believe you about the safe. You’re the first man or 
woman I’ve ever believed in my life. Sounds queer, huh? 
It is a fact. I’m not frightened of you — nobody knows 
that better than you.” Sault nodded. 

“About Morelle — I’ll talk to him. What is this girl — 
you’re not in love with her yourself, huh? Can’t imagine 
that. All right, I’ll speak to Morelle — a damned cur. 
Anything more?” 

“Nothing,” said Ambrose and went out. 

Steppe stared at the closed door. “ A man,” he said and 
shivered. No other man breathing had caused Steppe to 
shiver. 

He saw Ronnie at a club late that night. “ Here, I want 
you,” he jerked his head in the direction of a quiet corner 
of the smoking room, and Ronnie followed him, expecting 
compliments, for they had not met since the meeting. 

“You’ve got a parcel of women in tow, huh?” said 
Steppe. 

“ I don’t quite understand — ” began Ronnie. 

“You understand all right. One of them is a friend of 
Sault’s — Colebrook, I think her name must be. Go steady. 
She is a friend of Sault’s. He says he’ll break your neck 
if you monkey around there, do you get that, huh? Sault 
says so. He’ll do it.” 

Ronnie did not know Ambrose Sault any better than 
Ambrose knew him. The threat did not sound very dread- 
ful and he smiled. 

“You can grin; maybe I’ll see the same grin when I 
come to look at you on the mortuary slab. Sault is a hell 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


115 


of a bad man to cross. He has had his kill once and that 
will make the second seem like blowing bubbles. That’s 
all.” 

Ronnie was annoyed, but not greatly impressed. He only 
knew Sault as a sort of superior workman, who did the 
dirty work of the confederacy. Sometimes he used to 
wonder how Steppe employed him, but then he also specu- 
lated upon the exact standing of Moropulos whose name 
never appeared on a prospectus and who had, apparently, 
no particular duties. 

Threats did not greatly distress Ronnie Morelle. He had 
been threatened so often; and it was his experience that the 
worst was over when the threat came. He was free of the 
park now. Walking down Regent Street, one Saturday 
afternoon, he had come face to face with The Girl Who 
Had Screamed. She was with a tall, broad-shouldered 
young man and she had recognized him. After he had 
passed them, Ronnie, from the tail of his eye, saw the 
couple stop and the girl point after him. The man looked 
as though he were going to follow, but The Girl Who 
Screamed caught his arm. And that was the end of it. 

The man might hate him, but would not make a fuss. 
The offense was comparatively old, and men did not pursue 
other people’s srtale vendettas. The beginning and end of 
vengeance was a threatening gesture. He knew just what 
that broad-shouldered man was saying, and thinking. He 
was a scoundrel, he deserved flogging. If he had been on 
hand when the girl squealed, he would have torn the heart 
out of the offender. But he wasn’t there; and the girl had 
shown both her purity and her intelligence by preferring 
his gentle courtship to the violent love-making of Ronnie 


116 


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Morelle. In a sense the incident was subtly flattering to 
the broad-shouldered young man. 

Ronnie was not seeing Evie in these days, he was more 
pleasingly engaged. The new game was infinitely more 
intriguing, an opponent better armed for the fight and 
offering a more glorious triumph. 

But Steppe’s warning piqued him. Sault! His lips 
curled in derision. That nigger! That half-caste jail-bird! 

He wrote to Evie that night making an appointment. 


IV 


“You don’t know how happy I was when I found your 
letter at the store this morning. The manager doesn’t like 
girls to get letters, he is an awful fossil, but he’s rather 
keen on me. I told him your letters were from an uncle 
who isn’t friends with mother.” 

“ What a darling little liar you are ! ” said Ronnie amused. 
“My dear, I’ve missed you terribly. I shall have to give 
up my writing, if it is going to keep me from my girl.” 

She snuggled closer to his side as they walked slowly 
through the gloom to her favorite spot. She did not tell 
him how she had sat there every evening, braving the im- 
portunities of those less attractive ghouls who haunt the 
park in the hours of dusk. 

“There have been times,” said Ronnie when they had 
found chairs and drawn them to the shadow of a big elm, 
“when I felt that I could write no more unless I saw you 
for a moment. But I set my teeth and worked. I pretend 
sometimes that you are sitting on the other side of the 
table and I look up and talk to you.” 

“ You are like Christina,” said the delighted girl, “ she 
makes up things like that. Would you have liked to see 
me really walk into the room and sit down opposite to you? 

He held her more tightly. “ Nine-tenths of my troubles 
would vanish,” he said fervently, “and I could work — by 
heaven, how I should work if I had the inspiration of your 
117 


118 


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company! I wish you weren’t such a dear little puritan. 
I’m half inclined to engage a housekeeper if only to chap- 
eron you.” 

He waited for a rejoinder, but it did not come. 

“You have such queer ideas about how people should 
behave,” he said. “ In fact you are awfully old-fashioned, 
darling.” 

“Am I — I suppose I am.” 

“ Why, the modern girl goes everywhere, bachelor parties 
and dances — chaperons are about as much out of date as 
the dodo.” 

“What is a dodo?” 

“A bird — a sort of duck.” 

She gurgled with laughter. “You funny boy — ” 

“You know Sault, don’t you? Isn’t he a great friend of 
yours?” 

She struggled up out of his arms. “Friend! Of course 
not. He is a great friend of Christina’s but not of mine. 
He is so old and funny-looking. He has gray hair and he 
is quite dark — when I say dark, I mean he is not a negro, 
but — well, dark.” 

“I understand. Not a friend of yours?” 

“ Of course not. There are times when I can’t stand 
him! He doesn’t read or write, did you know that? Of 
course you do — and he has been in prison, you told me 
that, too. If mother knew she would have a fit. Why do 
you talk about him, Ronnie?” 

“ I’ve no special reason, only — ” 

“Only what, has he been talking about me?” 

“Not to me, of course — he told a friend of mine that 
he didn’t like you to know me. It was a surprise to me 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


119 


that he was aware we were friends. Did you tell him?” 

“ Me — I ? Of course not. I never heard of such nerve ! 
How dare he!” 

“S-sh — don’t get angry, darling. I’m sure he meant 
well. You have to do something for me, Evie dear.” 

“Talking about me — 1” 

“What is the use?” He bent his head and kissed her. 
“ It will be easy for you to say that you’ve only met me 
once or twice — and that you are not seeing me any more.” 

“But you — you will see me, Ronnie?” 

“ Surely. You don’t suppose that anything in the world 
will ever come between us, do you? Not fifty Saults.” 

“It is Christina!” she said. “How mean of her to 
discuss me with Sault! And I’ve done so much for her; 
brought her books from the store and given her little 
things — I do think it is deceitful of her.” 

“Will you do as I ask?” 

“ Of course, Ronnie darling. I’ll tell her that I’ve given 
you up. But she is terribly sharp and I must be careful. 
I sleep in the same room, ours is a very small house. I 
used to have a room of my own until Sault came — the 
horrid old man. He is in love with Christina. It does 
seem ridiculous, doesn’t it, a man like that? Christina 
says she isn’t, but really — she is so deceitful.” 

“Will you tell her what I suggest?” he insisted. 

“Yes — I’ll tell her. As for Mr. Sault — ” 

“Leave me to deal with Mr. Sault,” said Ronnie grandly. 

Evie reached home, her little brain charged with con- 
flicting emotions. Her relief at meeting the man again, 
the happiness that meeting had brought, her resentment at 
Sault’s unwarranted interference, her hurt from Christina’s 


120 


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supposed duplicity and breach of confidence, each con- 
tended for domination and each in turn triumphed. 

“ I have given up Ronnie and I am not going to meet 
him again,” she said as she entered the room. 

She was without finesse and Christina, instantly alert, 
was not impressed. “ This is very sudden. What has hap- 
pened?” 

“ I’ve given him up!” Evie slammed her hat down on a 
rickety dressing-table. She had no intention of letting the 
matter rest there. Her annoyance with Sault must be 
expressed. 

“ If a girl cannot have a friendship without her own 
sister and her sister’s beastly friends making up all sorts 
of beastly stories about her and breaking their sacred word, 
too, by telling beastly people about their private affairs, 
then she’d better give up having friendships,” she said a 
trifle incoherently. 

“ I want to sort that out,” said Christina, frowning, “ the 
only thing I’m perfectly sure about is that somebody is 
beastly. Do you mean that people have been talking about 
you and your — Ronnie?” 

Evie glowered at her. “You know — you know!” she 
blurted tremulously. “ You and Sault between you, trying 
to interfere in my — interfering in my affairs.” 

“Oh,” said Christina, “is that all?” 

“ Is that all ! Don’t you think it enough, parting Ronnie 
and I? Breaking my heart, that is what you’re doing!” she 
wailed. “I’ll never speak to Sault again. The old mur- 
derer — that’s what he is, a murderer! I’m going to tell 
mother and have him chucked out of the house. We’re not 
safe. Some night he’ll come along with a knife and cut 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


121 


our throats. A nigger murderer,” she screamed. “ He may 
be good enough to be your fancy man, but he’s not good 
enough for me!” 

“ Open the window and tell the street all about it,” sug- 
gested Christina. “ You’ll get an audience in no time. Go 
along! Open the window! They would love to hear. Every 
woman in this street screams her trouble sooner or later. 
The woman across the road was shouting ‘murder’ all 
last night. Be fashionable, Evie. Ronnie would love to 
know that you made a hit in Walter Street.” 

Evie was weeping now. “You’re horrible and vulgar, 
and I wish I was dead! You’ve — you’ve parted Ronnie and 
I — you and Sault!” 

“ I don’t think so,” said Christina quietly, “ my impres- 
sion is that you are saying what Ronnie told you to say.” 

“ I swear — ” began Evie. 

“ Don’t swear, Evie, screech. It is more convincing. 
Ronnie told you to say that you had given him up. What 
did Ambrose Sault do?” 

“ He went to a friend of Ronnie’s with a lot of lies — 
about me and Ronnie. And you must have told him, 
Christina. It was mean, mean, mean of you!” 

“He didn’t want telling. He heard you the other night 
when you were having hysterics and yelling ‘ Oh, Ronnie, 
Ronnie!’ at the top of your voice. You did everything 
except give Ronnie’s address and telephone number. Apart 
from that I did tell him. I wanted to know the kind of 
man you’re raving about. And your Ronnie is just dirt.’ 

“Don’t dare to say that — don’t dare!” 

“ If mother didn’t sleep like a dormouse she’d hear you 
— some people think they can make black white if they 


122 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


shout ‘black’ loudly enough. Ronald Morelle has a bad 
reputation with girls. I don’t care if you foam at the 
mouth, Evie, I’m going to say it. He is a blackguard!” 

“ Sault told you! Sault told you!” Evie’s voice had a 
shrill thin edge to it. “ I know he did — a murderer — a 
nigger murderer, that is what he is. Not fit to live under 
the same roof as me — I shall tell Ronnie what he said — 
I’ll tell him tomorrow, and then you’ll see!” 

“As you are permanently parted, I don’t see how you 
will have an opportunity of telling him,” said Christina. 
“ I could have told him myself, today, I saw him.” 

“Saw him, how?” Evie was surprised into interest. 

“With my eyes. Mr. Sault took me into Kensington 
Gardens and I saw him — he pointed him out to me.” 

Evie smiled contemptuously. “ That is where you and 
your damned Sault were wrong,” she said in triumph. 
“ Ronnie has been working in his flat all the afternoon ! 
He was writing an article for The Statesman!” 

“ He didn’t seem to be working very hard when I saw 
him,” said Christina unmoved, “ unless he was dictating 
his article to Miss Merville. They were driving together. 
Mr. Sault said: ‘There is Morelle’ — ” 

“ He should have said ‘ Mister ’.” 

“And I saw him. He is good-looking; the best looking 
man I have ever seen.” 

“ It wasn’t Ronnie — I don’t mean that Ronnie isn’t good 
looking. He’s lovely. But it couldn’t have been him. 
Besides, he hates that Mjerville girl, at least he doesn’t like 
her. You are only saying this to make me jealous. How 
was he dressed?” 

“So far as I could see, he wore a long-tailed coat — he 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


123 


certainly had a top hat. Mr. Sault said that he thought he 
had been to Lady Somebody-or-other’s garden party. Mr. 
Steppe was going, but couldn’t get away.” 

“Now I know it wasn’t Ronnie! He was wearing a blue 
suit — no, he hadn’t changed his clothes. He told me he 
didn’t dress until an hour before he met me. Sault is a — 
he must have been mistaken.” 

Before she went to bed she came over to say “ good 
night”. 

“ I’m sorry I lost my temper, Chris.” 

“My dear, if you lose nothing else, I shall be happy.” 

“ I hate your insinuations, Christina ! Some day you 
will find out what a splendid man Ronnie is — and then 
you’ll be surprised.” 

“ I shall,” admitted Christina, and later, when Evie was 
dropping into sleep, “Who did Ambrose kill?” 

“Eh — ? I don’t know. Somebody in Paris — ” An- 
other long silence. 

“He must have been a terrible villain!” 

“Who, Sault?” 

“ No, the man he killed,” said Christina. 

She lay awake for a long time. It was two o’clock when 
she heard his key in the lock. She raised her head, listen- 
ing to the creaking 'of the stairs as he came up. He had to 
pass her room and she whispered: “ Good night, Ambrose!” 

“Good night, Christina.” 

She blew a kiss at the door. 


V 


Mr. Steppe, with a gardenia in his buttonhole, leaned 
out of the window of his car and waved his yellow glove 
in greeting and Beryl, who was just about to enter her own 
machine, stepped back upon the sidewalk and waited. She 
felt a little twinge of impatience, for she was on her way to 
the Horse Show and Ronald. 

“ Is the doctor in — good ! He can wait — where are you 
off to. Beryl, huh? Looking perfectly lovely too. I often 
wonder what those old back-veld relations of mine would 
say if they ever saw a girl like you. Their women are just 
trek-oxen — mustn’t say ‘cows,’ huh? Are you in a great 
hurry?” 

“ Not a great hurry,” she smiled, “ but I think father is 
expecting you.” 

“ I know. But he’ll not be worried if I’m late. Drive 
me somewhere. I want to talk.” 

She jumped at the opportunity of placing a time-limit 
on the conversation. 

“ Drive to Regents Park, round the inner circle and back 
to the house,” she ordered, and Mr. Steppe handed her into 
the car. 

“ I want to have a little chat about your father,” he said, 
greatly to her surprise. He had never before spoken more 
than two consecutive sentences in reference to Dr. Merville. 

“What I tell you. Beryl, is in confidence,” he said. 

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125 


“ I’m not sure whether I ought to tell you at all, but you’re 
a sensible girl, huh? No nonsense. That is how a woman 
should be. The doctor has lost a lot of money — you know 
that?” 

“ I didn’t know,” she answered in alarm, “ but I thought 
father confined his investments to your companies?” 

“Yes — so he has. He has taken up a lot of shares — 
against my advice. He is carrying — well I wouldn’t like 
to tell you the figure. He bought them — against my ad- 
vice. Most of my stock is only partly paid up. He is 
carrying nearly a million shares in one concern or another. 
That is all right. You can carry millions, always providing 
there is a market, and that you can sell at a’ profit, or else 
that there isn’t any need to call up the remainder of the 
capital. That need has arisen in the case of two companies 
in which he is heavily involved. Now, Beryl, you are not 
to say a word about what I have told you.” 

“But — I don’t quite follow what you have said. Does 
it mean that father will be called upon to pay large sums 
of money?” He nodded. 

“Or else—?” 

“ There is no ‘ or else ’,” said Steppe. “ The capital has 
to be called in, in justice to the shareholders and the doctor 
must pay. Somebody must pay. In fact, I am going to 
pay. That was the reason I was calling on him today.” 

“He has been very worried lately,” said Beryl in a 
troubled tone. “ I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. 
Steppe. Is it a big sum?” 

“ It runs to hundreds of thousands,” said Steppe. “ Very 
few can lay their hands on that amount, huh? Jan Steppe! 
They know me in the city, hate me, would slaughter me. 


126 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


but they don’t despise me. I can sign cheques for a million 
and they’d be honored.” 

“But father must make some arrangement to pay you, 
Mr. Steppe — ” she begem. 

“ That is nothing. The shares may rise in value — there 
is no telling what may happen with the market in an opti- 
mistic mood. But I thought I would let you know. Steppe 
isn’t a bad fellow, huh?” 

She heaved a long sigh. “ No — you are kind, most kind. 
I wish father wouldn’t touch the stock market. Tempera- 
mentally, he is unfitted for a gambler. He is so easily 
depressed. Can’t you persuade him, Mr. Steppe?” 

“ If you say the word. I’ll stop him,” said Steppe. 
“ There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Beryl.” She was 
silent. 

“ I’m grateful,” she said, as the car was heading for the 
house. “ I cannot put myself under any bigger obligation 
— father must do as he wishes. But if you could help him 
with advice — ?” 

It occurred to her then, that if he could, at a word, arrest 
the speculative tendencies of Dr. Merville, why had he con- 
tented himself with “ advice ” when her father had made 
his disastrous investments? 

Saying good-bye to him at the door of the house. Beryl 
drove on to Olympia a disturbed and anxious girl. Steppe 
watched the car out of sight before he mounted the steps 
and rang the bell. 

“You saw us, huh? Yes, I wanted to talk to Beryl and 
I knew that you wouldn’t mind waiting. I’ve got to call up 
the unpaid capital of Brakpan Mines and Toledo Deeps.” 

The doctor moved uneasily. “ Couldn’t you wait a little 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


127 


while?” he asked nervously. “The shares are moving. 
They went up a fraction yesterday — which means that 
there are buyers.” 

“ I was the buyer,” said Steppe. “ I took a feeler at the 
market. I bought five hundred — and I could have had five 
hundred thousand at the price. They were falling over one 
another to sell. No, I’m afraid I’ve got to make a call and 
you’ll have to take up your shares, huh? Well, I’m going 
to let you have the money.” 

“ That is good of you — ” 

“ Not at all. I must keep your name sweet and clean, 
Merville. I am going to marry Beryl.” 

The doctor opened a silver box and took out a cigar with 
a shaking hand. “Beryl is a very dear girl,” he said. 
“Have you spoken to her?” 

“ No, there is plenty of time. I don’t want to scare her 
— let her get used to me, Merville, huh? That’s that. You 
are crossing with me tonight, huh? Good, I hate the Havre 
route, but you can sleep on board and that saves time. 
Abrahams is coming from Vienna with the Bulgarian con- 
cession. I’m inclined to float it.” 

Ronnie was waiting in the main entrance when the girl 
arrived. In some respects he was a model escort. He 
never expected a woman to be punctual and had trained 
himself in the art of patient waiting. 

“No, really, I haven’t been here very long,” he replied 
to her apology, “ and you, of all women, are worth waiting 
for.” 

“You are a dear. I don’t believe you, but still you are 
a dear. I’m so sick of life today, Ronnie — don’t ask me 
why. Amuse me.” 


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“How is the doctor?” he queried, as they were shown 
into their seats. 

“ He is going to Paris tonight with Mr. Steppe,” she said. 
“ Fm rather glad. Two or three days abroad will do him 
a lot of good. There aren’t many people here this after- 
noon, Ronnie.” 

“Most of the swells are at Ascot,” he explained, “the 
night seance is crowded. Gone to Paris, eh?” The news 
made him thoughtful. 

She drove him back to the house to tea. Dr. Merville 
was out and was not returning to dinner. The maid said 
he had left a letter in his study. Beryl found it to be a 
note saying he was unlikely to see her before he went; his 
bag would be called for, he added. 

“My hard-hearted parent has gone without saying good- 
bye,” she said. “ Take me out to dinner, Ronnie. After, I 
would like to see a revue. I feel un-intellectual today; Fm 
in the mood when I want to see people with red noses and 
baggy trousers. And I want to be in a box. I love boxes, 
since — ” 

Ronald Morelle walked home from Park Crescent stop- 
ping at a messenger office to scribble a note. 

“ It is at a drug store in Knightsbridge,” he said. “ I 
want the boy to give it to the young lady in the pay desk. 
Perhaps he had better make a purchase — a cake of soap, 
if that is the boy,” he smiled upon the diminutive mes- 
senger, “and let him hand the letter to the lady when he 
puts in his bill.” 

He came to the flat to find Francois laying out his dress- 
clothes. 

“Finish what you are doing and go home. I shall not 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


129 


want you this evening,” he said. “ Stay — have a bottle 
put on ice. You can lay the small table. You might have 
bought some flowers. I hate flowers, but — get some. You 
can throw them away tomorrow.” 

“ Yes, m’sieur,” said his imperturbable man, “ for how 
many shall I lay supper?” 

“For three,” answered Ronnie. 

It was a convention that he invariably entertained two 
guests, but Frangois had never had to wash more than two 
used glasses. 


VI 


Beryl was still in the drawing-room and the tea table 
had not been cleared when Ambrose Sault came for the 
doctor’s bag. She heard the sound of his voice in the hall 
and came to the head of the stairs. 

“ Is that you, Mr. Sault? Won’t you come up for a 
moment?” 

The doctor had telephoned to Moropulos, he explained, 
asking him to take the grip to his club. She gathered that 
it was usual for Ambrose to carry out these little com- 
missions. 

“How is Miss Colebrook? — has she forgiven me for 
acting the part of district visitor? She is a nice girl and 
her hair is such a wonderful color.” 

“ The osteopath says she will get well,” replied Ambrose 
simply, “ and when I went in to see her this morning she 
told me she really thought that she felt better already. 
She has the heart of a lion. Miss Merville.” 

“She is certainly brave.” Beryl knew she was a brute 
because she could not work up an enthusiastic interest in 
Christina Colebrook. 

“ It will be wonderful if she is cured.” Sault’s voice was 
hushed. “I daren’t let myself think about it — in fact, I 
shall be more bitterly disappointed than she, if the treat- 
ment does not succeed*” 

“You are very fond of her?” She had been examining 

130 


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131 


his face as he spoke, wondering what there was in him that 
she had seen at their first meeting which reminded her of 
Ronnie. There was not a vestige of likeness between them. 
This man’s face, for all its strength, was coarse; the eyes 
were the only fine features it possessed. And the skin — 
there was a yellow-brown tinge in it. She remembered her 
father saying once that people who had negro blood in their 
veins betrayed their origin even though they were quite 
white, by a dark half-moon on their finger-nails. Whilst 
he was speaking, he moved his hands so that his nails* were 
discernible. They were ugly nails, broad and ragged of 
edge — yes, there it was — a brown crescent showing against 
the deep pink. 

“Yes, I’m fond of her. She is lovable. I haven’t met 
anybody like Christina before.” 

Why was she annoyed? Perhaps “annoyed” hardly 
described her emotion. She was disappointed in him. Her 
attitude toward Sault was enigmatical — it was certainly 
capricious. She was a little nauseated and was glad when 
he went. 

Sault carried the suitcase to the club and left it with a 
porter. He wished he had an excuse for calling every day 
at the house — the sight of her exalted him, raised him 
instantly to a higher plane. 

He saw Evie walking home in front of him; she saw him, 
stopped and became interested in a shop window. She 
always avoided him in the street and would not dream of 
walking with him. In the kitchen, to which she followed 
him, she condescended to speak. 

“ You were looking very pleased with yourself when I 
saw you in High Street, Mr. Sault,” she said. 


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“Was I — yes, I was feeling good. You’re home early 
tonight, Evie.” 

Mrs. Colebrook had a washing day and was at her labors 
in the scullery, and Evie could flare up without reproof. 

“Fm so glad you no|;ice when I come in, and go out!” 
she said. “ It is nice to know that all your movements are 
watched. I suppose I ought to ask your permission when 
I stay out late? We always like to please the lodger!” 

He looked down into the pretty flushed face and smiled 
gently. “ I believe you are trying to be cross with me, 
Evie,” he said good-naturedly, “ and I don’t feel like being 
cross with anybody. My dear, it is no business of mine — 

“Don’t call me ‘my dear’, if you please! You have a 
nerve to ‘ my dear ’ me ! A man like you ! ” 

Sauk’s knuckle touched his chin awkwardly. “ I didn’t 
mean to be offensive — ” 

“ You are offensive! You are the most beastly offensive 
person I know! You go prying and spying into my business 
and telling lies about gentlemen whose boots you’re not fit 
to blacken.” 

“Hello, hello!” Mrs. Colebrook stood in the kitchen 
doorway, wiping her soapy hands on her apron. “What’s 
this, Evie? Telling lies about you? Mr. Sault would not 
tell a lie to save his life. What gentleman? He’d have to 
be a pretty good gentleman for Mr. Sault to blacken his 
boots.” 

Evie wilted before her mother’s fiery gaze and, turning, 
slammed from the room. 

“ It is nothing, Mrs. Colebrook,” smiled Ambrose. “ I 
made her angry — something I said. It was my fault 
entirely. Now what about those blankets?” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


133 


“You’re not going to wash any blankets,” said Mrs. 
Colebrook, “ and Evie has got to say she is sorry.” 

“ I washed blankets before you were born, Mrs. Cole- 
brook, or soon after, at any rate. I promised you I’d come 
home and help you.” 

He went with her to the little scullery with its copper 
and wash tub, she protesting. 

“ I didn’t think you meant it,” she said, “ and I can’t let 
you do it. You go into the kitchen and I’ll make you a 
cup of tea.” 

“Blankets,” said Ambrose, rolling up his sleeves. 

Evie burst into her room, red with anger. She hated 
Sault more than ever. She said so, flinging her hat wildly 
on the bed. 

“ Oh — was that you who was strafing?” asked Christina. 

“ I gave him a piece of my mind,” said Evie with satis- 
faction. 

“That was generous, considering the size of it.” Chris- 
tina bent outward and laid down the paper and stylograph 
she had been using. 

“ I couldn’t have done that a few days ago,” she said, 
“and what has poor Ambrose done?” 

“ He had the cheek to tell me I was home very early, as 
if he was the lord of the house!” 

“Aren’t you home early?” 

“It is no business of his, the interfering old devil!” 

Christina eyed her critically. “You came home in a bad 
temper,” she said. “ I suppose giving up Ronnie has got 
on your nerves.” 

“I haven’t given him up!” Evie snapped, “only he’s 
busy tonight.” 


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Christina chewed a toffee ball reflectively. “That man 
is certainly industrious,” she said. “ They will have to 
bring out new papers to print all he writes. Does he find 
time to eat?” 

Evie lifted her nose scornfully. “What did you say to 
my Ambrose?” 

“ I told you.” 

“You said that you gave him a piece of your mind — 
that doesn’t mean anything to me. Did you call him a 
murderer?” 

“ Of course I didn’t — I hope I’m a lady.” 

“ I’ve often hoped so, and maybe one of these days my 
hopes will be realized. So you didn’t call him a murderer? 
You lost a great opportunity. Don’t be offensive to him 
again, Evie,” she said quietly. 

Evie did not reply. When Christina spoke in that tone 
of voice she was frightened of her. 

“What is Ambrose doing now?” 

“ I don’t know — in the kitchen, I suppose, guzzling food. 
And I’m starving! But I worit sit down at the same table 
as a black man, I worCtT’ 

“ Don’t be a fool, Evie. Go down and get some food. 
You can bring it up here and eat it. And, Evie — Ambrose 
is a very dear friend of mine and I dislike hearing you call 
him a ‘ black man ’. He is almost as white as you and I. 
His great grandfather was an Indian.” 

“ If you don’t like to hear me say unpleasant things 
about your friends, don’t say them about mine.” 

Here, Evie thought, not without reason, that she had a 
point which was worth laboring. She was astonished when 
Christina surrendered without firing another shot. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


135 


“ Perhaps you are right, dear. Go and get something to 
eat.” 

Evie returned almost immediately with the news that the 
kitchen was empty and that she had seen one whom she was 
pleased to describe as “ the enemy ” bending over a wash- 
tub, his arms white with lather. 

“Do you think he is making up to mother?” she asked, 
as that interesting possibility presented itself. 

Christina choked. “ Don’t say funny things when I’m 
eating candy,” she begged. 


VII 


The revue had reached its seventh scene before Beryl and 
her escort were shown into the big stage box of the Pavil- 
ion. She had hardly taken her seat before she saw a 
familiar face in the stalls. 

“Isn’t that Mr. Moropulos?” she asked, and following 
the direction of her eyes he nodded. The Greek did not 
appear to have noticed them. He was conspicuous as being 
the only man in that row of the stalls who was not wearing 
evening dress. 

“ Yes, that is Moropulos. Don’t let him see you. Beryl.” 

Apparently Mr. Moropulos did not identify the pair, for 
though he turned his head in their direction he showed no 
sign of recognition. Half-way through the last part of the 
revue, he disappeared and they did not see him again. 

“And now home. It has been a jolly afternoon and 
evening,” said Beryl as they came out. 

Ronnie was looking round for his car. “ What a fool I 
am,” he said. “ I told Parker not to wait — for some 
extraordinary reason I imagined your car would be here. 
We’ll have to take a taxi.” 

The cab had hardly started before he tapped at the 
window and leaning out, gave a fresh direction. 

“ Come home and have some supper. I’ve just remem- 
bered that I told Francois I was bringing a couple of men 
home — told him early this morning.” 

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137 


She hesitated. “ I can’t stay very long,” she said. “ No 

— nobody is waiting up for me. My maid never does — it 
spoils my enjoyment of a dance if I think that I am keeping 
some poor girl out of her bed. I’ll come in for five 
minutes, dear.” 

His arm came round her, her head drooped toward him. 
“ Ronnie — I’m so glad all this has come about, darling 

— I’ve run after you — I know I have. But I don’t care — 
four years seems such an awful long time to wait.” 

“An eternity,” he breathed. 

“And marriage is, as you say — in your immoral way 

— only a third party sanction — it is silly.” He kissed her. 
An automatic lift carried them to the third floor and 

Ronnie went in switching on the lights. 

“ I wonder whether father will be angry,” she asked, “ if 
your man — ” 

“ He sleeps out,” Ronnie helped her off with her wrap. 
“ He’s never here after nine. This is my own room. Beryl 

— but you saw it when the doctor brought you here to 
dinner.” 

She walked over to the big black table and sat down. 
“Here genius broods,” she laughed quietly, “what a 
humbug you are, Ronnie! I don’t believe you write a 
thousand words a month!” 

He smiled indulgently. 

“ And there is your wicked Anthony ! He looks worse by 
artificial light. Now, Ronnie, I really must go.” 

“Go?” incredulously, “with foie-gras sandwiches and a 
beautifully dry wine — ?” 

The door into the dining-room was open and he pointed. 
“ It is the last bottle of that wine. Jerry will be furious 


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when he comes to breakfast in the morning and finds it 
gone.” , 

Ronnie had a friend, one Jeremiah Talbot, a man after 
his own heart. Beryl had met him once, a languid loose- 
lipped man with a reputation for gallantry. 

“Well — I’ll eat just a little — and then you must take 
me home. You shouldn’t have paid off the cab.” 

He was too busy at the wine bucket to listen. She sat 
on the edge of one of the window chesterfields and let her 
eyes rove around the room, and after a while he brought a 
plate and a filled glass. 

She put her lips to the wine and handed it back to him. 
“No more, dear.” 

A sudden panic had taken possession of her, and she was 
shaking. “No — !” And yet it was so natural and so 
comforting to let him hold her. She relaxed, unresisting. 

“I shouldn’t be here, Ronnie,” she murmured between 
his kisses, “ let me go, darling — please.” But he held her 
the tighter and she did not deny his greedy lips. 


VIII 


Ronnie woke with a start, stared at the window and 
cursed. Pulling on a dressing-gown he slipped from the 
room and at the sight of him the woman who was dusting 
the sideboard paused in her labors. 

“I don’t want you here today — where is your friend?” 

“ In the pantry, sir.” 

“Well, take her with you — ah, Francois, listen. Turn 
these women out and then go out yourself — go to the city 
— and get — buy anything you like, but don’t come back 
before eleven — no twelve.” 

He waited until the flat was empty and returned to his 
room. Beryl was lying with her head in the crook of her 
arm. She was not asleep — nor crying, as he had feared. 

“I’m dreadfully sorry, darling — I must have fallen 
asleep.” 

“What is the time?” She did not turn but spoke into 
the pillow. 

“ Eight — curse it! You can’t go home in evening dress.” 

“Why not?” 

She struggled up, her face averted. 

“It is the best way,” she said, “will you get me a cab?” 

When he came up again, she was tidying her hair at the 
mirror. “It was very foolish,” she remarked without 
emotion. 

“ There is nobody below, and, thank God, there was an 

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Albert Hall ball last night,” said Ronnie, “and it is only 
eight — shall I come down with you?” 

She shook her head. “No — just show me how to work 
the elevator. An Albert Hall ball? Where could I have 
been after that finished? You lie better than I, Ronnie.” 

“Having breakfast — lots of people make a special func- 
tion of breakfast after those shows.” 

“All right — show me how the elevator works.” 

To her maid a quarter of an hour later: “I’m going to 
bed. Dean, and if Mr. Morelle rings up, will you tell him 
that I am very sorry I cannot see him this morning. You 
can bring me a cup of chocolate — yes, I’ve had breakfast, 
but bring me some chocolate.” 

She was standing by the window in a silk wrap when the 
maid brought the tray. Beryl did not look round. 

“Put it down. Dean — I will ring when I want you.” 

She walked across the room and locked the door. Then 
she came to the mirror and looked for a long time at her- 
self. “Yes — Beryl — it is you! I was hoping it was 
somebody else!” 


IX 


That same morning Mr. Moropulos asked a question of 
Ambrose Sault. 

“ What exposure should you give to a photograph taken, 
say, soon after eight o’clock in the morning?” 

“What sort of a morning?” 

“This morning.” 

Ambrose glanced out of the window. 

“You could get a snap shot on a twenty-fifth of a 
second,” he said. 

Mr. Moropulos produced a folding kodak from his pocket. 
“Would this stop be wide enough?” 

Ambrose took the camera in his hand. “Yes,” he said. 
“What were you taking, a scene or a figure?” 

“ A figure,” said Mr Moropulos, “ a lady in evening 
dress.” 

Ambrose smiled. “ Eight o’clock is a funny time to 
photograph a lady in evening dress,” he said. 

“An amusing time — if one hadn’t been waiting up all 
night to take it. I was here at five. Yes — I came back 
for the camera. I took a chance of missing the lady, but 
even if I had it wouldn’t have mattered. But eight o’clock!” 
he laughed gleefully, “how very obliging. Sault, my 
Ambrosial man, I am going to sleep.” 

“ I think you need it,” said Ambrose. 

He did all the work of the house, even to making Mr. 

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Moropulos’ bed and he was glad of the opportunity to 
“spring-clean” the sitting-room. He only interrupted his 
labors to cut a crust of bread and a slice of cheese for his 
lunch. 

At five o’clock in the afternoon the telephone bell rang 
for the first time that day. “Is that Mr. Moropulos — is 
that vou, Mr. Sault?” 

“Yes, lady.” 

He recognized her voice instantly and his heart leaped 
within him. 

“I’m so glad — will you come to the house please?” 

“Yes — I’ll come right away.” He hung up the receiver 
as Moropulos strolled in yawning. 

“He-e! Who was the caller?” 

“A friend of mine,” said Sault. 

“Didn’t know you had any friends — are you going? 
Make me some coffee before you go, Sault.” 

“ Make it yourself,” said Ambrose. 

Moropulos grinned after him. “ I’d give a lot of money 
to stick a knife into that big chest of yours, my good 
Ambrose,” he said pleasantly. 

Marie opened the door to the untidy visitor, showing him 
straight to the drawing-room and Beryl came halfway to 
him, taking his hand in both of hers. 

“I’m so glad you’ve come — I had to send for you — do 
you mind? I want to talk to you — about nothing in par- 
ticular — I’m nervy. Can’t you tell from my hand?” 

The hand in his was shaking, he felt the quiver of it. 
And she looked pale. Why had she sent for him? She 
was amazed at herself. Perhaps it was his strength she 
wanted; a rock on which she might rebuild the shattered 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


143 


fabric of her reason. She had been thinking of him all the 
afternoon. Ronnie never came to her mind. He was inci- 
dental — reality lay with the coarse-featured man whom 
she had likened to a Caesar. 

“ I don’t want you to do anything for me, except be here. 
Just for a little while.” She was pleading like a frightened 
child. 

“ I am here — I will stay here until you want me to go,” 
said Ambrose, and smiled into her eyes. 

“Mr. Sault, I do so wish to talk about something. It 
won’t hurt you will it?” She had only released his hands 
to pull a chair forward. Opposite to him she sat, this time 
both of her hands in his. Why? She gave up asking the 
question. 

“You killed somebody, is it true — I knew it was true 
before I asked you. Did it injure you — make you think 
less of yourself — did you loathe the man you killed be- 
cause he made you do it? You are looking at me so 
strangely — you don’t think I am mad, do you?” 

“ I don’t think you are mad. No, I didn’t even hate the 
man. He deserved death. I did not wish to kill him, but 
there was no other way. There must be that definite end 
to some problems — death. There is no other. I believe 
implicitly in it — destruction. A man who is so vile that 
he kills in his greed or his lust! Who takes an innocent 
and a helpful life — helpful to the world and its people 
— you must destroy him. The law does this, so that the 
. brain behind his wicked hands shall not lead him to further 
mischief. If you have a sheep-dog that worries sheep you 
shoot him. There is no other way. Gr he will breed other 
sheep dogs with the same vice. Most problems are soluble 


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by various processes. Some of them drastic, some of them 
commonplace. A few, a very few, can only be ended that 
way. My man was one of these. I won’t tell you the 
story — he was a bad man and I killed him. But I didn’t 
hate him, nor hate myself. And I think no less of myself 
— and no more. I did what I thought was right — I’ve 
never regretted it, hut I’ve never been proud of it.” 

She listened, fascinated. The hands in his were quiet 
now, there was a hue in her cheeks. 

“How fine to feel like that — to detach yourself — hut 
why should you regret? You injured no one. Except the 
man and — was he married?” 

He nodded. “ I didn’t know at the time. She came for- 
ward afterwards and paid the expenses of my defense — 
she hated him — it was very sad.” 

They were quiet together until she lifted her head and 
spoke. “Mr. Sault — I’m going to ask you another strange 
question. Have you, in all your life, ever been in love?” 

“Yes,” he said instantly. 

“With a woman, just because she is a woman? As I 
might love a man because he has all the outward attractions 
of a man? Have you loved her just for her beauty and 
despised her mean soul and her vicious mind, and — and 
despising — still loved?” 

She hung upon his words, and when he said “ no ” her 
heart sank. 

“No — no, I couldn’t do that. That would be — hor- 
rible!” 

He shuddered. She had made Ambrose Sault shudder! 
Ambrose Sault who spoke calmly of murder, had shuddered 
at something, which, to him, was worse than murder! The 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


145 


fragrance of sin which had held to her and supported her 
through the day, was stale and sour and filthy. She shrank 
away from him, but he held her hands tightly. 

“Let me go, please,” her voice sounded faint. 

“ In a moment — look at me, lady.” 

She raised her eyes to his and they held them. 

“ I am going to say something to you that I never dreamed 
I would say; I never thought the words would come to me. 
Look at me, lady, a rough man — old — I’m more than 
fifty, ugly, with an old man’s shape and an old man’s 
hands. Illiterate — I love you. I shall never see you 
again — I love you. You are beautiful — the most beauti- 
ful lady I have seen. But it isn’t that. There is something 
in you that 1 love — I don’t know what — soul — spirit — 
individuality. 1 hope 1 haven’t revolted you — I don’t think 
I have.” 

“ Ambrose ! ” She clutched at the hands he was drawing 
away. “ I must tell you — there is nothing to love but 
what you see, there is no soul — no soul — nothing but 
weakness and a pitiful cowardice. I love a man who is 
like that, too. Foul, foul! But beautiful to look at — and, 
Ambrose, I have given him all that he can take.” 

Not a muscle of his face moved. 

“ I have given him everything — this very day — that is 
why I sent for you. There must be something in what you 
say — a spirit in me responds to you — oh, Ambrose, I love 
him!” 

She was sobbing against the stained and raveled coat. 
There was a scent of some pungent oil — turpentine. But 
« he did not speak. His big hand touched her head lightly, 
smoothing her hair. 


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“You think Pm — what do you think I am?” she asked. 

“ You know,” he patted her shoulder gently. “ I suppose 
you are wondering what I am feeling? I will tell you this 
— I am not hurt. I can’t be hurt, for you have lost nothing 
which I prize. If you were different, you wouldn’t like me 
to say that.” 

He took her face between his rough hands and looked 
into her eyes. “ How very beautiful it is ! ” he said. 

She shut her eyes tight to keep back the tears. 

“I said I wouldn’t see you again. Perhaps I won’t — 
but if you want me send for me.” 

She dried her eyes. “I’m a weakling — I wish I was 
wicked and didn’t care — I don’t care, really. What has 
happened is — ” she shrugged, “it is the discovery of my 
own rottenness that has shocked me — nearly driven me 
mad. You are going now, Ambrose — that is so lovely in 
you — you even know when to go!” 

She laughed nervously and laid her two hands on his 
shoulder. She did not want to kiss or be kissed. And she 
knew that he felt as she did. 

“ Come to me when I want you — I shall be busy invent- 
ing lies for the next few days. Good-bye, Ambrose.” When 
he had gone, she realized that no man’s name had been 
mentioned. Perhaps he knew. 


X 


For the first time in his life Ronald Morelle was regret- 
ting an adventure. All day long he had been trying to 
write, with the result that his wastepaper basket was full 
of torn or twisted sheets, even as the silver ash-tray on the 
table was heaped with cigarette ends. He had gone half a 
dozen times to the telephone to call up Merville’s house 
and had stopped short of giving the number. Then he tried 
to write her a note. He could think of nothing to say 
beyond the flamboyant beginning. What was the use of 
writing? And what was she thinking about it all? He 
wished — and he wished again. He had made a hopeless 
fool of himself. Why had he done it? For the truth 
unfolded as the hours passed, that an end must be found 
to this affair. In other cases finis had been written at his 
discretion, sometimes cheerfully, sometimes with tears and 
recriminations. There had been instances that called for 
solid compensations. Beryl was not to be ended that way. 
Besides, he had half-promised her — he grew hot at the 
very thought of matrimony and in the discomfort of the 
prospect, the pleasant irresponsibilities of bachelorhood 
and the features that went to the making of his life, seemed 
too good to lose. 

In such a mood, he thought of Evie Colebrook. How 
perfectly attractive she was; he could admire her virtue 
and coldbloodedly compare her with Beryl — to Beryl’s 
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CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


disparagement. He was hemmed in by his new responsi- 
bility; ached to be free from fetters that were still warm 
from the forge. Late at night he wrote two letters, one to 
Beryl, the other and the longer to Evie. 

Beryl had hers with her morning tea, saw who it was 
from the moment the maid pulled aside the curtains and 
let in the morning sunlight. She turned it over in her hand 
— now she knew. So that was how she felt about a letter 
from Ronnie. Not so much as a tremor, not a quicker 
pulsation of heart. 

She opened the envelope and read: 

‘‘My very dearest: I don’t know what to write to you or 
how. I adore the memory of you. I am shaken by the 
calamity — for you. Command me, I will do as you wish. 
I will not see you again though it breaks my heart.” 

It was written on a plain card, unsigned. She sent him 
a wire that morning: “Come to tea.” 

In answer came a hurried note by special delivery. 

“ I cannot : I dare not trust myself. I am overwhelmed 
by the sense of my treachery. That I should have brought 
a second’s unhappiness to you!” 

Unsigned. Ronnie never signed or dated such epistles. 

She read the note and laughed. Yes, she could laugh. 

On the third evening, her father returned in a most 
cheerful frame of mind. He had carried through a business 
deal, he and Steppe. And he had enjoyed the trip, having 
met a number of French medical men who had entertained 
him. 

“They were charming, and the new Pasteur laboratories 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


149 


were most fascinating. We feared you would have had a 
dull time, Beryl. I hope Ronnie didn’t desert you!” 

“ I am afraid he didn’t,” she said, and the doctor beamed. 

“You’re not too fond of him, I am glad of that for he 
is rather a rascal. I suppose young men, some young men, 
are like that — conscienceless.” 

“Did you have a good crossing?” she asked, and turned 
the conversation into a more pleasant way. 

“ Sault was to have met us at the station but he did not 
turn up. Perhaps Moropulos is drinking. One never 
knows when Moropulos will break out. He is afraid of 
Steppe.” 

“Who isn’t?” she asked with a grimace. 

The doctor scratched his cheek meditatively. “ I don’t 
know — I’m not afraid of him. Naturally, I shouldn’t like 
a rough and tumble with him, physically or verbally. 
Ronnie, of course, is in the most abject terror of him. The 
only man who isn’t — er — reluctant to provoke him, is 
Sault.” He chuckled. 

“ Steppe told me that he had a row with Sault over some 
girl that Ronnie had been carrying on with — the daughter 
of the woman Colebrook, my dear. Apparently, Sault went 
to our friend Jan and told him to put a stop to it, and 
Steppe was naturally annoyed, and do you know what 
Sault said?” Her eyes were shining. 

“He told Steppe that in certain contingencies he would 
kill him, before his servant could reach him; to his face!” 

“What did Mr. Steppe think of it?” she found her voice 
to ask. 

“ Amused — and impressed, too. He says Sault wouldn’t 
tell a lie, wouldn’t do a mean thing to save his soul. That 


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is something of a testimonial from a man like Steppe who, 
I am sorry to say, is inclined to be a little uncharitable.” 

Beryl folded her serviette; she looked to be absorbed in 
the operation. 

“He was telling me that Sault was one of the finest 
mathematicians in the country. And he doesn’t read or 
write! Of course, he writes figures and symbols perfectly. 
He attends every lecture that he can get to; a remarkable 
personality.” 

“Very.” 

“I thought you rather liked him?” 

She started from her reverie. “Who — Ambrose?” 

“Ambrose!” 

“That is his name, isn’t it?” 

“But, my dear,” smiled the doctor indulgently, “you 
wouldn’t call him by his Christian name ! I think he would 
be rather annoyed to be treated like a servant.” 

“ I wasn’t thinking of him as a servant.” 

They got up from the table together and she went with 
him as far as his study door. 

“What have you been doing with yourself — theatres?” 

“Yes, and a ball. An all-night affair. I came home at 
eight.” 

“Humph — bad for you, that sort of thing.” 

She was sure it was. It was bad to lie, too, but she was 
beyond caring. Ambrose never lied. He would lie for her. 
Ronnie also would lie — for himself. She mused and 
mused, thinking of Sault — Ambrose Sault. And the red- 
haired invalid. And this sister of hers whom Ambrose had 
gone to Steppe about — she laughed quietly. She would 
have loved to have seen that contest of giants. Could 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


151 


Steppe be browbeaten? It seemed impossible, and yet 
Ambrose had cowed him. 

She dreamed that night that she saw Ronald and Sault 
fighting with reaping hooks — she woke up with a shiver. 
For in her dream their heads had been exchanged, and 
Ronnie’s face smiled at her from Sault’s broad shoulders. 
It was growing light, she found, when she peeped through 
the curtains. She went to bed again, but did not sleep any 
more. 

It was a coincidence that Ronald Morelle was also awake 
at that hour. His new responsibility was weighing on him 
like a leaden weight. She would never let him go. Her 
wire had terrified him. “There’s no end to it!” he said 
with a groan, “no end.” 

He did not love Beryl; he loved nobody, but there were 
some girls whom he wanted to see again and again. Evie 
was one of that kind. He did not want to see Beryl. He 
pictured himself chained for life to a woman who was now 
wholly without attraction. To this misery was added a new 
and unbelievable horror. 

Steppe called just as Ronald was going out to lunch. At 
any time Steppe was an unwelcome visitor. In the state of 
Ronnie’s nerves, he felt it impossible that he could support 
the strain of the big man’s company for five minutes. He 
wished Steppe wouldn’t barge in without warning. It was 
not gentlemanly. 

“I’m awful glad to see you, Mr. Steppe; when did you 
get 'back?” 

“Last night — I won’t keep you a minute. I’m on my 
way to make a call on that swine Moropulos,” he growled. 
“ I want to see you about Beryl.” 


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Ronald Morelle’s heart missed a beat. Had she told? 
He turned white at the thought. Luckily Steppe was strid- 
ing up and down the room, hands in pockets, bearded chin 
on chest. 

Ronnie’s mouth had gone dry and he had a cold sinking 
feeling inside him. “ Yes — about Beryl,” he managed to 
say. 

“You’re a great friend of hers, huh? Known her for 
a long time?” 

Ronnie nodded. 

“You have some influence with her?” 

“I — I hope so — not a great influence — ” 

“ I am going to marry Beryl. The doctor has probably 
hinted to you that I have plans in that quarter, huh?” 

Ronnie swallowed. “ No,” he said, “ I didn’t know — my 
congratulations.” 

“Keep ’em,” said the other shortly, “they’re not wanted 
yet. You’re a great friend of hers, huh? Go about with 
her a great deal? I suppose it is all right. I’d pull the 
life out of you if it wasn’t — but Beryl is a good girl — 
what I want you to do is this; give me a good name. If 
you have any influence, use it. Get that?” 

“ Certainly,^ Morelle found voice to say, “ I’ll do what 
1 can.” 

“That’s all right. And, Morelle, when I’m married you 
won’t be asked to spend a great deal of time at my house. 
You’ll come when I invite you. That’s straight, huh? So 
long.” 

Ronald shut the door on him. 


XI 


What a mess! What a perfect hell of a mess he was in. 
He stood by the window, biting his nails. Suppose Beryl 
told? He wiped his forehead. Girls had queer ideas about 
their duty in that respect. He knew of cases. One of those 
threatening gestures which had come his way was the result 
of such a misguided act of confession on the part of a girl 
whom he had treated very handsomely indeed. A baser 
case of ingratitude it would be difficult to imagine. Beryl 
might. She had principles. Phew! 

He heard the trill of the telephone in Francois’ pantry. 

“Mr. Moropulos,” said Francois, emerging from his 
room. 

Ronnie scowled. “Tell him — no, put him through.” 
He laid down his walking stick and gloves. 

“Yes, Moropulos — good morning — lunch? Well, I 
was going out to lunch with some people.” 

Moropulos said that his business was important. 

“All right — oh, anywhere — one of those little places 
in Soho.” He slammed down the instrument viciously. But 
this was a time to consolidate his friends and their interests. 
Not that Moropulos was a friend, but he was useful and 
might be more so. 

The Greek arrived at the restaurant to the minute and 
was looking more spruce than usual. 

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“Have you seen Steppe?” was his first question. 

“ I understood he was on his way to see you — he seemed 
angry,” said Ronnie. 

“ Our dear Steppe is always angry,” answered the Greek 
coolly. “This time, however, he has no cause. If he has 
gone to my house, he will not see me.” 

“What is the trouble?” 

Moropulos shrugged. “ He has been informed by evil- 
minded people that during his absence I was — well, not 
to put too fine a point on it, very drunk.” 

“And were you?” 

“ On the contrary, at the very hour, when his spies in- 
formed him I was dancing on a table in a low part of the 
east end, and shouting that the Mackenzie report was a 
forgery — ” 

Ronnie went pale. “Good God! You never said that?” 
he gasped. 

“ Of course not. If I had, it would be a serious thing 
for me. I, Paul Moropulos, tell you, Ronald Morelle, that 
it would be a disastrous thing for me. Just now my rela- 
tions with dear Jan are — er — strained. I do not wish a 
breach.” 

“But surely if Steppe’s men say — ” 

“ ‘ Let them say,’ ” quoted Moropulos, “ it is what I say, 
and you say, and somebody else says, that counts, for at 
the very moment I was supposed to be misbehaving,” he 
emphasized his words, “I was dining with you and the 
lovely Miss Merville in your flat.” 

“What! Why, that is a lie!” 

“What is one lie worse than another? Observe I give 
you the date; it was one day before the charming Miss 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


155 


Merville spent the night with you alone in your very 
beautiful flat.” Had the floor collapsed, Ronald Morelle 
could not have received a worse shock. 

“ I recognize your embarrassment and sympathize with 
you,” said Moropulos, “ but it is essential for my happiness 
and ultimate prosperity, that both you and Miss Merville 
should testify that I dined with you on the previous night.” 

Ronnie had nothing to say. He had not yet realized the 
tremendous import of the man’s threat. 

“ I will save you a lot of trouble by telling you that I 
followed you from the Pavilion to Knightsbridge. I spent 
the whole of the night outside, wondering when she would 
come out, and I photographed her as she got into the 
cab. The photograph, an excellent one, is now in a se- 
cret place. Steppe, I hope, will never see it,” he added, 
looking at his vis-a-vis from under his eyelids. “ Steppe is 
angry with me; how unjust! It was impossible that I 
could have been making a fool of myself, at the very hour 
we three together were talking of — what were we talking 
of? — Greece, let us say, the academies. Steppe would 
not believe you, of course, but he would believe Miss Mer- 
ville and a great unpleasantness would be avoided. I am 
sorry to make this demand upon you, but you see how I am 
situated? I swear to you that I had no intention of using 
my knowledge. It was an amusing little secret of my own.” 

Ronald found his voice. “Am I to tell — Miss Merville 
that you know? That you have a photograph?” 

Moropulos spread his hands. “Why should she know? 
It is not necessary.” 

Ronnie was relieved. It was something to be spared the 
scene which would follow the disclosure that a third person 


156 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


was in their secret. He asked for no proofs that Moropulos 
knew, and any thought of the girl and what this meant to 
her, never entered his head. If Steppe knew! He grew 
cold at the thought. Steppe would kill him, pull his life 
out of him. Ronald Morelle was prepared to go a long 
way to keep his master in ignorance. 

“ I will see Miss Merville,” he said, and then feeling that 
a protest was called for: “You have behaved disgracefully, 
Moropulos — to blackmail me. That is what it amounts 
to!” 

“ Not at all. It was a simple matter to tell Steppe that 
on the night in question I was waiting soberly outside your 
flat, watching his interests. He is immensely partial to 
Beryl Merville. A confusion of dates would not have been 
remarked; he would be so mad that the lesser would be 
absorbed in the greater injury. He, he would forgive — 
you — ” 

Ronald shuddered. 

In the afternoon he made his call. “ It is lucky finding 
you alone, dear,” he began, awkwardly for him, “you’ll 
never guess what I’ve been through during the past few 
days — ” 

She was very palm and self-possessed. A shade paler, 
perhaps, but she was of a type that pallor suited. And she 
met his eyes without embarrassment. That made matters 
more diflScult for Ronald. He plunged straight away into 
the object of his visit. 

“Where were you on Tuesday night. Beryl?” 

She was puzzled. “Tuesday — ? I forget, why?” 

“ Try to think, dear,” he urged. 

“I was dining at home. Father was out, I think. I’m 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


157 


not sure. I went to a concert after with the Paynters. Yes, 
that was it — why?” 

“You were dining with Moropulos and 1.” 

She stared at him. “ I don’t understand.” 

“ Moropulos is in trouble with Steppe. He has been 
drinking and some of Steppe’s watchers have reported that 
he made an ass of himself, gave away some business secrets, 
and that sort of thing. Steppe is naturally furious and 
Moropulos wants to prove an alibi.” 

“That he was dining with us, how absurd! Where?” 

“ In my flat.” 

She surveyed him steadily. He was unusually excited. 
She had never seen Ronnie like that before. Nothing ever 
ruffled him. 

“ Of course, I can’t tell such a lie, even to save your 
friend,” she said. “ I was dining at home, although father 
has such a wretched memory that he won’t be sure whether 
I was here or not.” 

“Where did you meet the Paynters, did they call for 
you?” he asked eagerly and she shook her head. 

“ No,, I met them at Queens Hall. I was late and they 
had gone into the hall. But that is beside the point. I am 
not helping you in this matter.” 

“ But you must, you must,” he was frenzied. “ Moropu- 
los knows — he saw you come into the flat — and come 
out.” 

There was a dead silence. 

“When — on that night?” 

She walked across the room, her hands clasped behind 
her. Ronnie had expected hysteria — he marveled at her 
calm. 


158 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“ Very well,” she said at last. “ I dined with you and 
Moropulos. You had better invent another lady. Let us 
be decent, even in our inventions. And Mr. Moropulos 
entertained us with talk about — what?” 

“ Anything,” nervously, “ I know that you think I’m a 
brute — I can’t tell you what I think about myself.” 

“I can save you the trouble. You think you are in 
danger and you are hating me because I am the cause.” 

“Beryl!” 

She smiled. “Perhaps I am being uncharitable. The 
complex of this situation doesn’t allow for very clear 
thinking. I may take another view next week. Will you 
post this letter for me as you go out?” 

He went down the stairs dumbfounded. Her quietness, 
the unshaken poise of her, staggered him. “ Will you post 
this letter!” — as if his visit had been an ordinary call. 
He glanced at the envelope. It was addressed to a Bond 
Street milliner, and on the back flap was scribbled : “ Send 
the blue toque also.” 

“H’m,” said Ronnie as he dropped the letter into the 
post box. He felt in some indefinable way that he was 
being slighted. 


XII 


Mrs. Colebrook acclaimed it as a miracle and discovered 
in the amazing circumstance the result of her industrious 
praying. 

“Every night I’ve said; ‘Please God, make Christina 
well, amen.’” 

The osteopath, a short, bearded man, who perspired with 
great freedom, grunted his grudging satisfaction. 

Christina was not well by any means, but for tlie first 
time in her life she stood upon her own two feet. Only 
for a few seconds, with Mrs. Colebrook supporting her on 
the one side and the bone doctor on the other, but she stood. 

“Yes — not bad after a month’s work,” said the osteo- 
path. “You must have massage for those back muscles, 
they are like wool. If you don’t mind a man doing it, you 
couldn’t do better than persuade Mr. Sault. He is an 
excellent masseur — I found this out by accident. The 
evening he came to engage me, I’d been dining out and 
sprained my ankle getting out of a cab — young lady, I 
observe your suspicion. I am an abstainer and have not 
touched strong wines for twenty years. I came in feeling 
bad and I was not inclined to discuss spines with him or 
anybody. But he insisted on massaging the limb — said 
he had learned the art in a hospital somewhere — yes, ask 
him. Otherwise it will cost you half a guinea a day.” 

159 


160 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


Evie heard all this early in th^ afternoon. It was early 
closing day and she came home to lunch. She flew up the 
stairs and literally flung herself upon Christina. 

“You darling. Isn’t it wonderful! Mother says you 
stood up by yourself. Oh, Chris, didn’t it feel splendid!” 

“ Mother is a romancer,” smiled Christina. “ I certainly 
did stand on my feet, with considerable assistance, and it 
felt like hell ! — pardon the language — physically. Spir- 
itually and intellectually it was a golden moment of life. 
Oh, Evie, I’m gurgling with joy inside and the prospect of 
Ambrose rubbing my back fills me with bliss.” 

“Ambrose — Mr. Sault?” 

Christina inclined her head gravely. 

“But not your hare back?” 

“ I fear so,” said Christina. “ I knew this would be a 
shock to you.” 

“ Don’t be silly, Chris — it is all right I suppose,” and 
then with a happy laugh, “ of course it is all right. I’m 
wrong. I think I must have an unpleasant mind. You’ve 
always said I had — well, you’ve hinted. I’d even let him 
rub my back if it would do you good.” 

“You Lady Godiva,” murmured Christina admiringly, 
“quo vadis?” 

“ That means where am I going? I always mix it up 
with that other one, ‘ the sign of the cross.’ I am going to 
a matinee with a girl from the shop. She had tickets sent 
to her by a gentleman who knows the manager. It will be 
a bad play; you can’t get tickets for a success. How is 
your Ambrose? I haven’t seen him for weeks. Ronnie 
says that there has been an awful lot of trouble at the 
office — ” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


161 


“Oh! Has he an office?” 

“ I don’t know — some office Ronnie is connected with. 
He’s a director, my dear. I saw his name in the paper — 
Ronnie, I mean.” 

“Has Ambrose been in trouble?” 

“No, some other man, I forget his name. It is foreign 
and he drinks. But it has all blown over now.” 

Christina sighed. “ I don’t see how Ambrose came into 
it, even after your lucid explanation.” 

“Ambrose, that is to say Mr. Sault, is supposed to look 
after — whatever his name is. It sounds like the name of 
a cigarette. He is supposed to stop him drinking. And he 
found this — Moropulos, that’s the name, in a bar and 
hauled him out and Moropulos fought him. I don’t know 
the whole story but I do know that there was a row.” 

“Is the cigarette person still able to walk about?” asked 
Christina incredulously. 

“Yes, but they are very bad friends. Moropulos says 
he’ll get even with Sault.” 

“ Unhappy man,” said Christina, “ Ronnie is getting 
quite communicative, isn’t he?” 

“We’re real friends,” answered the girl enthusiastically, 
“ we’re just pals! I sometimes feel — I don’t know whether 
I ought to tell you this. But I will. I sometimes feel that 
I really don’t want to marry Ronnie at all. I feel that I 
could be perfectly happy, married to somebody else, if I 
had him for a friend. Isn’t that queer?” 

Christina thought it was queer and wondered if this atti- 
tude of mind was Evie’s very own or whether it had grown 
by suggestion. But she had evidently done Ronnie an 
injustice in this instance. 


162 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“ I’ve never told Ronnie this,” said Evie. “ I don’t fancy 
that he would understand, but I did ask him whether he 
thought that he could be friends with Beryl Merville if 
she married somebody else. I only asked him for fun, just 
to hear what he would say. My dear, how he loathes that 
girl ! I could tell he was sincere. He was so furious ! He 
said that if she married, he would never visit her house 
and he wished he had never seen her.” 

Christina made no response. It was on the tip of her 
tongue to say that Beryl Merville must know the man very 
well to have excited such hatred, but she observed the truce. 

When Ambrose put in an appearance late in the evening 
she learned that he had heard from the osteopath. His 
large smile told her that even before he spoke. 

“Now, Ambrose, did he say anything about massage?” 

Ambrose nodded. “ I’ll do it if you’ll let me,” he said 
simply. “ My hands aren’t as awkward as they look.” 

Later her mother, who had been an interested spectator 
of the treatment, spoke a great truth. “ It seems natural 
for Mr. Sault to be rubbing your back, Christina. He’s 
just like a — a soul with hands — sounds ridiculous I know, 
but that is what I felt. He wasn’t a man and he wasn’t a 
woman. It seemed natural, somehow — how did you feel 
about it?” 

“ Mother, I begin to feel that I got my genius from you,” 
said Christina, patting a rumpled sheet into place, “I 
couldn’t have bettered that; ‘a soul with hands’!” 

Mrs. Colebrook blinked complacently. “ I’ve always 
been a bit clever in describing people,” she said. “ Do you 
remember how I used to call Evie ‘spitfire’?” 

“ Don’t spoil my illusions mother — ‘ a soul with hands ’ 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


163 


entitles you to my everlasting respect. And don’t tell Evie, 
or she’ll talk about his feet. He has big feet, I admit, 
though he makes less noise than Evie. And he snores, I 
heard him last night.” 


XIII 


There came a day when Christina put her feet to the 
grimy pavement of the street and walked slowly but with- 
out assistance to Dr. Merville’s car, borrowed through 
Beryl, for the afternoon. 

It was a cold, clear day in January, the wind was in the 
east and the gutters of Walter Street were covered with a 
thin film of ice. 

A momentous occasion, for in addition to other wonders, 
Christina was wearing her first hat! Evie had chosen and 
bought it. The woolen costume was one from Mrs. Cole- 
brook’s wash-tub. Ambrose had provided a gray squirrel 
coat. It had appeared at the last moment. But the hat was 
a joy. Christina had worn it in bed all the morning, sitting 
up with pillows behind her and a mirror in her hand. 

“Lend me that powder-pufif of yours, Evie,” she said 
recklessly, “ My skin is perfect. I admit it. But I can’t 
appear before the curious eyes of the world wearing my 
own complexion. It wouldn’t be decent.” 

“ If you take my advice,” suggested the wise Evie, “ you’ll 
put a dab of rouge on your cheeks. Nobody will know.” 

“ I am no painted woman,” said Christina, “ I am poor 
but I am respectable. Ambrose would think I had a fever 
and send for the osteopath. No, a little powder. My eyes 
are sufiiciently langorous without eyeblack, I think. It ^ 
must be powder or nothing.” 

164 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


165 


Ambrose did not accompany them, and Evie and Mrs. 
Colebrook were her attendants in the drive to Hampstead. 

Beryl saw them; she had arranged with Ambrose and the 
chauffeur that the car should go past the house and she 
watched from behind a curtained window. 

So that was Evie; it was the first time she ha<J seen her 
— no, not the first time. She was the girl to whom Ronnie 
had been speaking that holiday morning when she had 
passed them in the park. She was very pretty and petite — 
the kind Ronnie liked. She lingered at the window long 
after they had passed, loath to face an unpleasant interview. 

She knew it would be unpleasant; her father had been so 
anxious to please her at lunch; his nervousness was symp- 
tomatic. He wanted to have a little talk with her that after- 
noon, he said; she guessed the subject set for discussion. 

Sitting before the drawing-room fire she was reading when 
he came in rubbing his hands, and wearing a cheerful smile 
which was wholly simulated. 

“ Ah, there you are. Beryl. Now we can have a chat. I 
get very little time nowadays.” 

He poked the fire vigorously and sat down. “ Beryl — ” 
he seemed at some loss for an opening, “ I had a talk with 
Steppe the other day — we were talking about you.” 

“Yes?” 

“Steppe is very fond of you — loves you,” Dr. Merville 
cleared his throat. “ Y^s, he loves you. Beryl. A fine man, 
a little rough, perhaps, but a fine man and a very rich 
man.” 

“Yes?” said Beryl again and he grew more agitated. 

“ I don’t know why you say ‘ Yes, yes,’ ” he said irritably, 
“a young girl doesn’t as a rule hear such things without 


166 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


displaying some — well, some emotion. How do you feel 
about the matter?” 

“About marrying Mr. Steppe? I suppose you mean 
that? I can’t marry him: I don’t wish to.” 

“ I’m sure you would learn to love him, Beryl.” 

She shook her head. “ Impossible. I’m sorry, father, 
especially if you wished me to marry him. But it is im- 
possible.” 

The doctor stared gloomily into the fire. “ You must do 
as you wish. I cannot conscientiously urge you to make 
any sacrifice — he is a rough sort, and I’m afraid he will 
take your refusal badly. I don’t mind what he does — 
really. I’ve made a hash of things — it was madness ever 
to invest a penny. I had a hundred and fifty thousand when 
I came into this house. And now — !” 

She listened with a cold feeling in her heart. “ Do you 
mean — that you depend upon the good will of Mr. Steppe 
— that if you were to break your connection with him and 
his companies, your position would be affected — ?” 

He nodded. “ I am afraid that is how matters stand,” he 
said, “but I forbid you to take that into consideration.” 
Yet he looked at her so eagerly, so wistfully, that she knew 
his lofty statements to be so many words by which he ex- 
pressed principles, long since dead. The form of his 
vanished code showed dimly through the emptiness of his 
speech. 

“I am a modern father — I believe that a girl’s heart 
should go where it will. Girls do not marry men to save 
their families, except in melodrama, and fathers do not 
ask such a ghastly sacrifice. I should have been glad if 
you had thought kindly of Steppe. It would have made my 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 



course so much more smooth. However — ” He got up, 
stooped to poke the fire again, hung the poker tidily on the 
iron and straightened himself. 

“Let me think it over,” she said, not looking at him. 
Not until he was out of the room did he feel uncomfort- 
able. 

She had been prepared for this development. Steppe 
had been a constant visitor to the house and his rare flowers 
filled the vases of every room except hers. And her father 
had hinted and hinted. That Dr. Merville was heavily in 
the debt of her suitor she could guess. Steppe had told her 
months before that he had to come to the rescue of the 
doctor. Only she had hoped that so crude an alternative 
would not be placed before her, though she knew that such 
arrangements were not altogether confined to the realms of 
melodrama. At least two friends of hers had married for 
a similar reason. A knightly millionaire bootmaker had 
married Lady Sylvia Frascommon and had settled the Earl 
of Farileigh’s bills at a moment when that noble earl was 
dodging writs in bankruptcy. She could look at the matter 
more calmly because she had come to a dead end. There 
was nothing ahead, nothing. She did not count Ambrose 
Sauk’s love amongst the tangibilities of life. That be- 
longed to herself. Steppe would marry that possession. It 
was as much of her, as hands and lips, except that it was 
beyond his enjoyment. In the midst of her examination, 
her father came in. 

“ There is one thing I forgot to say, dear — Ronnie, who 
is as fond of you as any of us, thinks that you ought to 
marry — he says he’ll be glad to see you married to Steppe. 
I thought it was fine of Ronnie.” 


168 


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“Shut the door, father, please; there’s a draught,” said 
Beryl. 

Dr. Merville returned to his study shaking his head. He 
couldn’t understand Beryl. 

So Ronnie approved! She sat, cheek in hand, elbow on 
knee, looking at the fire. Steppe did not seem so impos- 
sible after that. Ronnie! He would approve, of course. 
What terrors he must have endured when he discovered that 
Steppe was his rival! What mental agonies! An idea 
came to her. 

She went down to the hall where the telephone was and 
gave his number. 

“Hello — yes.” 

“Is that you, Ronnie?” 

“Yes — is that you. Beryl?” his voice changed. She 
detected an anxious note. “ How are you — I meant to 
come round yesterday. I haven’t seen you for an age.” 

“Father says that you think I ought to marry Steppe.” 

There was an interval. “Did you hear what I said?” 
she asked. 

“Yes — of course it is heartbreaking for me — I feel 
terrible about it all — but it is a good match. Beryl. He 
is one of the richest men in town — it is for your good, 
dear.” 

She nodded to the transmitter and her lips twitched. “ I 
can’t marry him without telling him, can I, Ronnie?” She 
heard his gasp. 

“For God’s sake, don’t be so mad. Beryl! You’re mad! 
What good would it do — it would break your father’s heart 
— you don’t want to do that, do you? It would be selfish 
and nothing good could come of it — 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


169 


She was smiling delightedly at her end of the wire, but 
this he could not know. 

“ I will think about it,” she said. 

“Beryl — Beryl — don’t go away. You mustn’t, you 
really mustn’t — I’m not thinking about myself — it is you 
— your father. You won’t do such a crazy thing, will you? 
Promise me you won’t — I am entitled to some considera- 
tion.” 

“ I’ll think about it,” she repeated and left him in a state 
of collapse. 


XIV 

It happened sometimes that Mr. Moropulos had extraor- 
dinary callers at his bleak house in Paddington. They 
came furtively, after dark, and were careful to note whether 
or not they were followed. Since few of these made ap- 
pointments and were unexpected, it was essential that the 
Greek should be indoors up to ten o’clock. Therefore, he 
failed in his trust when his unquenchable thirst drew him 
away from business. He was maintained in comfort by 
Jan Steppe to receive these shy callers. Mr. Moropulos 
was not, as might be supposed, engaged in a career of 
crime, as we understand crime. The people who came 
and whom he interviewed briefly in his sitting-room, were 
respectable persons who followed various occupations in 
the city and would have swooned at the thought of stealing 
a watch or robbing a safe. But it was known in and about 
Threadneedle Street, Old Broad Street and in various quaint 
alleyways and passages where bareheaded clerks abound, 
that information worth money could be sold for money. A 
chance-heard remark, the fag-end of a conversation in a 
board room, heard between the opening and closing of a 
door; a peep at a letter, any of these scraps of gossip 
could be turned into solid cash by the bearded Greek. 

It was surprising how quickly his address passed round 
and even more surprising how very quickly Moropulos had 
organized an intelligence service which was unique as it 
170 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


171 


was pernicious. He paid well, or rather Steppe paid, and 
the returns were handsome. A clerk desiring to participate 
in a rise of value which he knew was coming, could buy a 
hundred shares through Moropulos and that, without the 
expenditure of a cent. Moropulos knew the secrets of a 
hundred offices; there were few business amalgamations 
that he did not hear about weeks in advance. When the 
Westfontein Gold Mines published a sensational report 
concerning their properties, a report which brought their 
stock from eight to nothing, few people knew that Morop- 
ulos had had the essential part of the report in his pocket 
the day after it arrived in London. It cost Steppe three 
thousand pounds, but was worth every penny. The amount 
of the sum paid was exaggerated, but it was also spread 
abroad. And in consequence, Mr. Moropulos was a very 
busy man. 

He was in his sitting-room on that shivering winter night. 
A great fire roared in the chimney, a shaded lamp was so 
placed, that it fell upon the book and the occupant of the 
sofa could read in comfort. On a small eastern table 
was a large tumblerful of barley water. From time to time 
Mr. Moropulos sipped wryly. 

It was nearing ten and he was debating within himself 
whether he should go to bed or test his will by a visit to a 
cafe where he knew some friends of his would be, when he 
heard the street door slam and looked over his shoulder. 
It could only be Sault or — 

The door opened and Jan Steppe came in, dusting the 
snow from the sleeve of his coat. It was a handsome coat, 
deeply collared in astrachan and its lining was sealskin, as 
Mr. Moropulos did not fail to observe. 


172 


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“Alone, huh?” said Steppe. He glanced at the barley 
water by the Greek’s side and grinned sardonically. “ That’s 
the stuff, not a headache in a bucketful!” 

“Nor a cheerful thought,” said Moropulos. “What 
brings you this way. Steppe?” 

“ I want to put some things in the safe.” 

Sault’s invention stood on a wooden frame behind a 
screen. 

“ Have to be careful about this word — give me some 
more light,” said Steppe at the dial. 

Moropulos rose wearily and turned a switch. 

“That’s better — huh. Got it!’^ 

The door swung open and, taking a small package from 
his pocket, the big man tossed it in. 

“Got something here, huh?” 

He pulled out an envelope. There was a wax seal on 
the back. 

“‘The photograph’?” he read and frowned at the other. 

“ It is mine,” said Moropulos. 

“Nothing to do with the business?” 

“Nothing.” 

Steppe threw it back and turned the dial. 

“Nothing new, huh?” 

He glanced at the barley water again. 

“Where’s Sault?” 

“ He goes home early. I don’t see him again unless one 
of your hounds sends for him.” 

Steppe’s smile was half sneer. 

“You don’t like Sault — a good fellow, huh?” 

Moropulos wrinkled his nose like an angry dog. His 
beard seemed to stiffen and his eyes blazed. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


173 


“Like him — he’s not human, that fellow! Nothing 
moves him, nothing. I tried to smash him up with a bottle, 
but he took it away from me as if I were a child. I hate 
a man who makes me feel like that — if he hadn’t got my 
gun away I’d have laid him out. It would be fine to hurt 
the devil — and he is a devil, Steppe. Inhuman. Some- 
times I give him a newspaper to read — just for the fun of 
it. But it never worries him.” 

“ Don’t try. He’s a bigger man than you. You want to 
rouse him, huh? The day you do, God help you! I don’t 
think you will. That’s how I feel about him. He’s cold. 
Chilly as a Druid’s hell. He is dangerous when he’s quiet 
— and he’s always quiet.” 

“He is no use to me. It is a waste of money keeping 
him. I’ll give you no more trouble.” 

Steppe pursed his lips until his curling black moustache 
bristled like the end of a brush. It was a grimace indica- 
tive of his skepticism. He had reason. 

“Leave it. Sault will not give you any bother. I don’t 
want strangers here, huh? Cleaners who are spying de- 
tectives.” 

Moropulos took his book again as his employer went out. 
But he did not read. His eyes looked beyond the edge of 
the page, his mind was busy. Detestation of Ambrose Sault 
was not assumed, as he had simulated so many likes and 
dislikes. Sault’s maddening imperturbability, his immense 
superiority to the petty annoyances with which his daily 
companion fed him, his contempt for the Greek’s vulgarity, 
these things combined to the fire of the man’s hatred. They 
were incompatibles — it was impossible to imagine any 
two men more unlike. 


174 


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Moropulos was one whose speech was habitually coarse; 
his pleasures fleshly and elemental. He delighted to talk 
of his conquests, cheap enough though they were. He had 
collected from the Levant the pictures that hawkers and 
dragomen show secretly, and these were bound up in two 
huge volumes over which he would pore for hours. So it 
pleased him, beyond normal understanding, to bring Beryl 
Merville into the category of easy women. He had never 
doubted that she was bad. There were no other kind of 
women to Moropulos. Suspecting, before there were 
grounds for suspicion, he had watched and justified his 
construction of the girl’s friendship with Ronnie Morelle. 
He was certain when he watched her come out of the 
Knightsbridge flat that if he had been fortunate, he would 
have seen her there before, perhaps the previous night. 
Beryl was no less in his eyes than she had been. She was 
bad. All women were bad, only some were more particu- 
lar than others in choosing their partners in sin. 

He had reason to meet Ronald Morelle the next morning 
and returning he brought news. 

Ambrose was clearing the snow from the steps and path 
before the house when he arrived. 

“Come in,” he was bubbling over with excitement, “I’ve 
got a piece of interesting information.” Ambrose in his 
deliberate fashion put away broom and spade before he 
joined the other. 

“You know Beryl Merville, don’t you? Steppe is mar- 
rying her.” 

He had no other idea than to pass on the news, and 
create something of the sensation which its recital had 
caused him. But his keen eyes did not miss the quick lift 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


175 


of Sault’s head or the change that came to his face. Only 
for the fraction of a second, and then his mask descended 
again. 

“What do you think of it, Sault? Some girl, eh?” 

He added one of his own peculiar comments. “Who 
told you?” 

“ Ronald Morelle-^ I don’t suppose he minds — now. 
Lucky devil, Steppe. God! If I had his money!” 

Ambrose walked slowly away, but his enemy had found 
the chink in his armor. He was certain of it. It was 
incredible that a man like Ambrose Sault would feel that 
way, but he would swear that Ambrose was hurt. Here he 
was wrong. Ambrose was profoundly moved; but he was 
not hurt. 

That day Moropulos said little. It was on the second and 
third days that he went to work with an ingenuity that was 
devilish to break farther into the crevice he had found. 

Ambrose made little or no response. The slyest, most 
outrageous innuendo, he passed as though it had not been 
spoken. Moropulos was piqued and angry. He dare not 
go farther for fear Sault complain to Steppe. That alone 
held him within bounds. But the man was suffering. In- 
stinctively he knew that. Suffering in a dumb, hopeless 
way that found no expression. 

On the Friday night Ambrose returned to his lodging 
looking very tired. Christina was shocked at his appear- 
ance. “Ambrose — what is the matter?” 

“ I don’t know, Christina — yes, I know. Moropulos has 
been trying, very trying. I find it so much more difficult 
to hold myself in. I suppose I’m getting old and my will 
power is weakening.” 


176 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


She stroked the hand that lay on the arm of the chair 
(for she was sitting up) and looked at him gravely. 

“Ambrose, I feel that you have given me some of your 
strength. Do you remember how you gave it to mother?” 

He shook his head. “No, not you — I purposely didn’t. 
I’ve a loving heart for you, Christina. I shall carry you 
with me beyond life.” 

“Why do you say that tonight?” she asked with an odd 
little pain at her heart. 

“ I don’t know. Steppe wants me to go down with Morop- 
ulos to his place in the country. Moropulos has asked 
me before, but this time Steppe asked me. I don’t know — ” 

He shook his head wearily. She had never seen him so 
depressed. It was as if the spirit of life had suddenly 
burned out. 

“ I hope it will be as you say, Ambrose, but, my dear, 
you are overtired; we oughtn’t to discuss souls and eterni- 
ties and stuff like that. It is sleep you want, Ambrose.” 

“ I’m not sleepy.” 

He bent over her, his big hand on her head. “ I am 
glad you are well,” he said. 

She heard him go downstairs and out of the house, 
late as it was. A few minutes afterwards Evie came in. 

“Where is Sault going?” she asked. “I saw him stalk-* 
ing up the street as though it belonged to him. And oh, 
Chris, what do you think Ronnie says! Mr. Steppe is 
marrying that girl who came here — Beryl Merville!” 

“ Fine,” said Christina absently. 

She knew now and her heart was bursting with sorrow 
for the man who had gone out into the night. 


XV 


“ The Parthenon ” occupied an acre of land that had 
once been part of a monastery garden. Until Mr. Morop- 
ulos with his passion for Hellenic nomenclature had so 
named it, the old cottage and its land was known by the 
curious title: “Brothergod Farm”, or as it appeared in 
ancient deeds, “The Farmstead of Brother-of-God.” 

For Mr. Moropulos there was a peculiar pleasure in 
setting up in the monastery land such symbols of the 
pantheistic religion of ancient Greece as he could procure. 

The house itself consisted of one large kitchen-hall on 
the ground floor and two bedrooms above. A more modern 
kitchen had been built on to the main walls by a former 
tenant. The cottage was well furnished, and unlike his 
home in Paddington, the floors were carpeted, a piece of 
needless extravagance from the Greek’s point of view, but 
one which he had not determined, for he had bought the 
cottage and the furniture together, the owner being disin- 
clined to sell the one without the other. 

The garden was the glory of the place in the summer. 
It had a charm even on the chill afternoon that Ambrose 
deposited his bag at the white gate. A wintry sun was 
setting redly, turning to the color of wine the white face 
of the fields. In the hollows of the little valley beyond the 
cottage, the mists were lying in smoky pools. His hands 
177 


178 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


on the top of the gate, he gazed rapturously at such a sun- 
set as England seldom sees. Turquoise — claret — a blue 
that was almost green. 

Drawing a long breath he picked up his bag and walked 
into the house. 

“ Go down and look after Moropulos. He is weakening 
on that barley-water diet — he told me himself.” 

Thus Steppe. His servitor obeyed without question, 
though he knew that the shadow of death was upon him. 

Moropulos was stretched in a deep mission chair, his 
slippered feet toward the hearth. And he had begun his 
libations early. 

On the floor within reach of his hand, was a tumbler, 
full of milky white fluid. There was a sugar-basin — a 
glass jug half filled with water and a tea strainer. Ambrose 
need not look for the absinthe bottle. The accessories told 
the story. 

“Come in — shut the door, you big fool — no you don’t!” 
Moropulos snatched up the tumbler from the floor and 
gulped down its contents. “Ha-a! That is good, my dear 

— good! Sit down!” he pointed imperiously to a chair. 
“ You’ll have no more of that stuff tonight, Moropulos,” 

Ambrose gathered up the bottle and took it into the kitchen. 
The Greek chuckled as he heard it smash. He had a store 

— a little locker in the tool-shed; a few bottles in his bed- 
room. 

“Come back!” he roared."^ “Come, you big pig! Come 
and talk about Beryl. Ah! What a girl! What a face 
for that hairy gorilla to kiss!” 

Sault heard, but went on filling a kettle and presently- 
the shouts subsided. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


179 


“When I call you, come!” commanded Moropulos sulkily 
as Ambrose returned with a steaming cup of tea in his hand. 

“ Drink this,” said Ambrose. 

Moropulos took the cup and saucer and flung them and 
their contents into the fireplace. “For children, for young 
ladies, but not for a son of the south — an immortal, Sault! 
For young ladies, yes — for Beryl the beautiful — ” 

A hand gripped him by the beard and jerked his head 
up. The pain was exquisite — his neck was stretched, a 
thousand hot needles tortured his chin and cheek where the 
beard dragged. For the space of a second he looked into 
the gray eyes, fathomless. Then Ambrose broke his grip 
and the man staggered to his feet mouthing, grimacing, but 
silent. Nor did Ambrose speak. His eyes had spoken, and 
the half-drunken man dropped back into his chair, cow- 
ering. 

When Sault returned to the room, after unpacking his 
bag, Moropulos was still sitting in the same position. “ Do 
you want anything cooked for your dinner?” 

“There is — fish — and chops. You’ll find them in the 
kitchen.” 

He sat, breathing quickly, listening to the sizzle ami 
splutter of frying meat. Ambrose Sault shut the door that 
led into the kitchen and the Greek stood up listening. 

From beneath a locker he produced a bottle, quietly he 
took up the water- jug and sugar and stole softly up to his 
room. He locked the door q®etly, put down his impedi- 
menta and opened a drawer of an old davenport. Under- 
neath an assortment of handkerchiefs and underwear, he 
found an ivory-handled revolver, a slender-barrelled, plated 
thing, that glittered in his hand. It was loaded ; he made 


180 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


sure of that. His hatred of Ambrose Sault was an insensate 
obsession. He had pulled him by the beard, an intolerable 
insult in any circumstances. But Sault was a nigger — he 
sat down on the only chair in the room and prepared a 
drink. 

“Are you coming down? I’ve laid the table and the 
food is ready,” Ambrose called from the bottom of the 
stairs. 

“Go to hell!” 

“Come along, Moropulos. What is the sense of this? 
I am sorry I touched you.” 

“You’ll be more sorry,” screamed the Greek. His voice 
sounded deafeningly near for he had opened the door. 
“You dog, you — ” 

Mr. Moropulos had a wider range of expletives than most 
men. Ambrose listened without listening. 

Pulling out a chair from the table, he sat down and 
began his dinner. He heard the feet of the drunkard pacing 
the floor above, heard the rumble of his voice and then the 
upper door was flung violently open and the feet of Morop- 
ulos clattered down the stairs. He had taken off his coat 
and his waistcoat. His beard flowed over a colored silk 
shirt, beautifully embroidered. But it was the thing in his 
hand that Ambrose saw, and, seeing, rose. 

The man’s face was white with rage; an artery in his 
neck was pulsating visibly. “You pulled my beard — you 
ignorant negro — you nigge# thing — you damned convict 1 
You’re going on your knees to lick my boots — my boots, 
not Beryl’s, you old fool — ” 

Ambrose did not move from the position he had taken 
on the other side of the table. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


181 


“Down, down, down!” shrieked Moropulos, his pistol 
waving wildly. 

Ambrose Sault obeyed, but not as Moropulos had expected. 
Suddenly he dropped out of view behind the edge of the 
white cloth and in the same motion he launched himself 
under the table, toward the man. In a second he had 
gripped him by the ankles and thrown him — the pistol 
dropped almost into his hands. 

Moropulos stumbled to his feet and glared round at his 
assailant. “ I hope to God you love that woman; I hope to 
God you love her — you do, you old fool! You love her 
— Ronald Morelle’s mistress! I know! She stayed a night 
at his flat — other nights too — but I saw her as she came 
out — I photographed her!” 

“You photographed her as she came out?” repeated 
Ambrose dully. 

A grin of glee parted the bearded lips. 

“I’ve hurt you, damn you! I’ve hurt you! And I’m 
going to tell Steppe and tell her father and everybody!” 

“ You liar.” Sault’s voice was gentle. “ You filthy man! 
You saw nothing!” 

“I didn’t, eh? Oh, I didn’t! Morelle admitted it — 
admitted it to me. And I’ve got the photograph in a safe 
place, with a full account of what happened!” 

“In the safe!” 

Moropulos had made a mistake, a fatal mistake. He 
realized it even as he had spoken. 

“And you — and Morelle — have her in your cruel 
hands!” 

So softly did he speak that it seemed to the man that it 
was a whisper he heard. 


182 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


Sault held in his hands the pistol. He looked at it 
thoughtfully. “ You must not hurt her,” he said. 

Moropulos stood paralyzed for a moment, then made a 
dart for the door. His hand was on the latch when Ambrose 
Sault shot him dead. 


BOOK THE THIRD 


I 

Ambrose looked a very long time at the inert heap by 
the door. He seemed to be settling some diflEculty which 
had arisen in his mind, for the gloom passed from his face 
and pocketing the revolver slowly, he walked across to 
where Paul Moropulos lay. He was quite dead. 

“ I am glad,” said Ambrose. 

Lifting the body, he laid it in the chair; then he took 
out the pistol again and examined it. There were five live 
cartridges. He only needed one. In the kitchen he put on 
the heavy overcoat he had been wearing when he arrived. 
Returning, he lit the candle of a lantern and went out into 
the back of the house where Moropulos had erected a small 
army hut to serve as his garage. He broke the lock and 
wheeled out the little car. Ambrose Sault was in no hurry : 
his every movement was deliberate. He tested ^the tank, 
filled it, put water in the radiator; then started the engines 
and drove the car through the stable gates on to the main 
road, before, leaving the engines running, he paid another 
visit to the house and blew out the lamp. 

As he reached the dark road again he saw a man standing 
by the car. It proved to be a villager. 

“Somebody heard a shot going off up this way. I told 
’un it was only Mr. Moropuly’s old car backfiring.” 

183 


184 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“ It was not that,” said Ambrose as he stepped into the 
car. “ Good night.” 

He drove carefully, because his life was very precious 
this night. He thought of Christina several times, but with- 
out self-pity. Christina would get well — and her love 
would endure. It was of the quality which did not need 
the flesh of him. Ronald Morelle must die. There was no 
other solution. He must die, not because he had led the 
woman to his way; that was a smaller matter than any and, 
honestly, meant nothing to Ambrose. Ronald’s offense was 
his knowledge. He knew: he had told. He would tell 
again. 

A policeman stopped him as he drove through Woking. 
He was asked to produce a license and, when none was 
forthcoming, his name and address were taken. Ambrose 
gave both truthfully. It was a lucky chance for the police- 
man. Afterwards he gave evidence and became important: 
was promoted sergeant on the very day that Steppe sneered 
at a weeping man. That was seven weeks later — in March, 
when the primroses were showing in Brother-of-God Farm. 

Ambrose knew Ronald’s flat. He had gone there once 
with Moropulos, and he had waited outside the door whilst 
Moropulq^ was interviewing Ronnie. 

Nine o’clock was striking as the car drew up before the 
flat — Ronnie heard it through the closed casement. 

Nine o’clock? He dropped his pen and leaned back in 
his chair. What was the cause of that cold trickling sensa- 
tion — his mouth went dry. He used to feel like that in 
air raids. 

A bell rung. 

“Frangois — ” Louder, “Frangois!” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


185 


“Pardon, m’sieur.” Frangois came out of his pantry 
half awake. 

“The door.” Who was it, thought Ronnie — he jumped 
up. 

“What do you want, Sault?” 

Ambrose looked round at the waiting servant. “You,” 
he said. “ I want to know the truth first — that man should 
go” 

Ronnie flushed angrily. “ I certainly cannot allow you 
to decide whether my servant goes or remains. Have you 
come from Mr. Steppe?” 

Ambrose hesitated. Perhaps it was a confidential mes- 
sage from Steppe, thought Ronnie. This uncouth fellow 
often served as a messenger. 

“Wait outside the door, Frangois — no, outside the lobby 
door.” 

“ I haven’t come from Steppe.” 

Suddenly Ronnie remembered. “ Steppe said you had 
gone to the country with Moropulos — where is he?” 

“ Dead.” 

Ronnie staggered back, his pale face working. He had 
a horror of death. 

“Dead?” he said hollowly, and Sault nodded. 

“ I killed him.” 

A gasp. “God—! Why!” 

“He knew — he said you had told him. He knew be- 
cause he was outside your flat all night and photographed 
her as she went out.” 

The blood of the listener froze with horror. “I — I 
don’t know what you’re talking about — who is the ‘she’?” 

“Beryl Merville.” 


186 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“It is a lie — absurd — Miss Merville — ! Here?” 

He found his breath insufficient for his speech. Some- 
thing inside him was paralyzed: his words were disjointed. 

“It is true — she was here. She told me.” 

“You — you’re mad! Told you! It is a damned lie. 
She was never here. If Moropulos said that, I’m glad 
you’ve killed him!” 

“ He took a photograph and wrote a statement; you know 
about that because he spoke to you and you admitted it all.” 

“I swear before God that Moropulos has never spoken 
to me. I would have killed him if he had. The story of 
the photograph is a lie — he invented it. That was his 
way — where is this picture?” 

Ambrose did not answer. Was this man speaking the 
truth? His version was at least plausible. He must go at 
once to the house in Paddington and get the envelope — it 
must be destroyed. How would he know if Ronnie was 
speaking the truth? Ronald Morelle, his teeth biting into 
his lip, saw judgment wavering. He was fighting for his 
life; he knew that Sault had come to kill him and his soul 
quivered. 

“Where is that picture — ? I tell you it is an invention 
of that swine. He guessed — Even to you I will not admit 
that there is a word of truth in the story.” 

He had won. The hand that was thrust into the overcoat 
pocket returned empty. 

“ I will come back,” said Sault. 

When he reached the street he saw a man looking at the 
number plate of his car. He took no notice, but drove off. 
He had to break a window to get into the house at Padding- 
ton. He had forgotten to bring his keys. That delayed his 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


187 


entrance for some while. He was in the room, and his 
fingers on the dial of the combination, when three men 
walked through the door. 

He knew who they were. “ I have a revolver in my 
pocket, gentlemen,” he said. “I have killed Paul Morop- 
ulos, the owner of this house.” They snapped handcuffs 
upon his wrists. 

“Do you know the combination of this safe, Sault?” 
asked the tall inspector in charge. He had been reading a 
typewritten notice affixed to the top. 

“ Yes, sir,” said Ambrose Sault. 

“What is it?” 

“ I am not at liberty to say.” 

“What is in it — money?” 

No answer. The officer beckoned forward one of the 
uniformed men who seemed to fill the hall. 

“This safe is not to be touched, you understand? By 
anybody. If you allow the handle to be turned, there will 
be trouble. Come along, Sault.” 

The handcuffs were unnecessary. They were also inade- 
quate. In the darkness of the car — 

“ I am very sorry, inspector — I have broken these things 
— I was feeling for a handkerchief and forgot.” 

They did not believe him, but at the police station they 
found that he had spoken the truth. The bar of the cuff 
had been wrenched open, the steel catch of the lock torn 
away. 

“ I did it absentmindedly,” said Ambrose shamefaced. 

They put him into a cell where he went instantly to sleep. 
The handcuffs became a famous exhibit which generations 
of young policemen will look upon with awe and wonder. 


II 


Sunday morning, and the bells of the churches calling 
to worship. Fog, thin and yellow, covered the streets. All 
the lamps in Jan Steppe’s study were blazing, he had the 
African’s hatred of dim lights and there was usually one 
lamp burning in the room he might be using, unless the 
sun shone. 

He paced up and down the carpet, his hands thrust deep 
into his pockets, his mind busy. He was too well-equipped 
a man to see danger in any other direction than where it 
lay. In moments of peril, he was ice. He could not be 
cajoled or stampeded into facing imaginary troubles, nor 
yet to turn his back upon the real threat. All his life he 
had been a fighter and had grown rich from his victories. 
Struggle was a normal condition of existence. Nothing had 
come to him that he had not planned and worked for, or 
to gain which he had not taken considerable risks. The 
risks now were confined to Ambrose Sault and his fidelity 
to the trust which had been forced upon him by circum- 
stances. He was satisfied that Ambrose would not speak. 
If he did — 

Steppe chewed on an unlighted cigar. 

The removal of Moropulos meant an inconvenience 
Sault scarcely counted. The Greek was a nuisance and a 
danger, whilst his extravagance and folly had brought his 
associates to the verge of ruin. When the police arrested 
188 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


189 


Ambrose Sault they took possession of the house in which 
he had been found. Amongst other things seized, was the 
safe upon which Moropulos had pasted a typewritten notice 
in his whimsical language: 

TO BURGLARS AND ALL WHOM 
IT MAY CONCERN 


CAUTION 

Any attempt to open this safe, except by 
the employment of the correct code word, 
will result in the destruction of the safe’s 
contents. 

DON’T TURN THE HANDLE 

Steppe had seen the notice but had not read it. If it 
had not been affixed! One turn of the handle and every 
paper would have been reduced to a black pulp. He tried 
to remember what was stored in the cursed thing. There 
were drafts, memoranda, letters from illicit agents, a record 
of certain transactions which would not look well — the 
Mackenzie report! Later he remembered the photograph 
in the sealed envelope. Why had Sault gone to the safe? 
The report he had had from the police — they had been 
with him for the best part of the morning — was to the 
effect that Sault had been arrested at the moment he was 
swinging the dials. What was Sault after? He could not 
read: only documents were in the safe. 

A footman appeared. “Who? — Morelle — show him 


190 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


Ronnie was looking wan and tired. He had not recovered 
from his fright. 

“Well? I got your ’phone call. Don’t ’phone me, d’ye 
hear — never! You get people listening in at any time; 
just now the exchanges will be stiff with detectives. What 
were you trying to tell me when I shut you up?” 

“ About Sault — he came to me last night.” 

“Huh! rAe thing to talk about on the ’phone! Did 
you tell the police?” 

“No, and I’ve ordered FranQois to say nothing. After 
Sault went, I sent Frangois to — to Moropulos’ house. I 
knew Sault was going there.” 

“How did you know? And why did he come to you 
anyway?” 

The answer Ronnie had decided upon after much cogi- 
tation. “ Oh — a rambling statement about Moropulos. I 
couldn’t make head or tail of it. He said he was going to 
the house; I was afraid of trouble, so I sent Frangois.” 

“You knew Moropulos was in Hampshire — I told you 
they were both there.” 

“I’d forgotten that. I don’t want to come into this. 
Steppe — ” 

“ What you ‘ want ’, matters as much to me as what your 
Frangois wants. If Sault says he came to your flat — but 
he won’t. He’ll say nothing — nothing.” 

He looked keenly at the other. “That was all he said, 
huh? Just a rambling statement? Not like Sault that, he 
never rambles. Did he tell you that he killed Moropulos?” 

Ronnie hesitated. 

“He did! Try to speak the truth, will you? So he told 
you he had killed the Greco?” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


1 


191 

“ I didn’t take him seriously. I thought he must be 
joking — ” 

“ Fine joke, huh? Did Sault ever pull that kind of joke? 
You’re not telling me the truth, Morelle — you’d better. 
I’m speaking as a friend. What did he come to talk to you 
about, huh? He never even knew you — had no dealings 
with you. Why should he come to you after he’d committed 
a murder?” 

“ I’ve told you what happened,” said Ronnie desperately. 

Again the quick scrutiny. “Well — we shall see.” 

Ronald waited for a dismissal. 

“ That sounds like the doctor’s voice,” he said suddenly. 

Steppe strode to the door and opened it. 

“Why, Beryl, what brings you out? Good morning, 
doctor — yes, very bad news.” 

Beryl came past him and went straight to Ronald. “ Did 
you see him, Ronnie — did he come to you?” 

“To me — of course not. I hardly knew him.” 

“ Don’t lie,” said Steppe impatiently, “ we’re all friends 
here. What njakes you think he went to Morelle, Beryl?” 

“ I wondered.” 

“But you must have had some reason?” 

She met the big man’s eyes coldly. “Must I be cross- 
examined? I had a feeling that he had been to Ronnie. I 
don’t know why — why does one have these intuitions?” 

“ We saw it in the morning papers,” explained the doctor. 
“ I am fearfully worried; poor Moropulos, it is dreadful.” 

Steppe smiled unpleasantly. “He is the least troubled 
of any of us,” he said callously, “and the next least is 
Sault. I saw the detective who arrested him. He said 
Sault went straight to sleep the moment they put him into 


192 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


the cell, and woke this morning cheerful. He must have 
nerves of iron.” 

“Can anything be done for him, Mr. Steppe?” 

“He shall have the best lawyer — that Maxton fellow. 
He ought to be retained. As far as money can help. I’ll 
do everything possible. I don’t think it will make a scrap 
of difference.” 

“ Mr. Steppe, you knew what an evil man Moropulos 
was: you know the provocation he offered to Ambrose Sault, 
isn’t it possible that the same cause that made him kill this 
man, also sent him to the safe?” 

“What safe is this — was that in the newspapers too?” 

“Yes: he was not a thief, was he? He would not be 
trying to open the safe for the sake of getting money? He 
came to get something that Moropulos had.” 

“ I wonder — ” Steppe was impressed. “ It may have 
been the photograph.” 

Ronnie checked the exclamation that terror wrung. He 
was livid. 

“Do you know anything about a photograph?” asked 
Steppe with growing suspicion. 

“ No.” Here Beryl came to the rescue. 

When he saw her lips move, Ronnie expected worse. 

“Whatever it was, I am sure that the safe holds the 
secret: Ambrose would not kill a man unless — unless there 
was no other solution. Won’t you open the safe, Mr. 
Steppe?” 

“I’ll be damned if I do!” he vociferated violently. 
“ There is nothing there which would save him.” 

“Or justify him — or show the Greek as being what he 
was?” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


193 


Steppe could not answer this: he had another comment 
to offer. His attitude toward her had changed slightly since 
the big diamond had blazed upon her engagement finger: 
a reminder of obligations past and to come. 

“You’re taking a hell of an interest in this fellow, 
Beryl?” 

“ I shall always take a hell of an interest in every matter 
I please,” she said, eyeing him steadily. “ Unless you 
satisfy me that nothing has been left undone that can be 
done for Ambrose, I shall go into the witness box and 
swear to all that I know.” 

“My dear — ” Her father’s expostulation she did not 
hear. 

Steppe broke into it. “There is something about this 
business which I don’t understand. You and Moropulos 
and this fellow dined together once — or didn’t you? 
Sounds mighty queer, but I won’t enquire — now.” 

“You’ll open the safe?” 

“No!” Steppe’s jaw set like a trap. “Not to save 
Sault or any other man! There is nothing there to save 
him, I tell you. But if there was — I wouldn’t open it. 
Get that into your mind, all of you.” 

She regarded him thoughtfully, and then Ronnie. He 
looked in another direction. 

“ I am taking the car, father.” 

Even Steppe did not ask her where she was going. 


Ill 


Christina had known in the middle of the night when 
the police came to search Sault’s room. A detective of 
high rank had been communicative; she heard the story 
with a serenity which filled the quaking Evie with wonder. 
If her face grew of a sudden peaked, a new glory glowed 
in her eyes. 

Mrs. Colebrook wept noisily and continued to weep 
throughout the night. Christina meditated upon an old 
suspicion of hers, that her mother regarded Ambrose Sault 
as being near enough the age of a lonely widow woman, 
to make possible a second matrimonial venture. This view 
Evie held definitely. 

“ Oh, Chris — my dear, I am so sorry,” whimpered the 
younger girl, when the police had taken their departure. 
“ And Fve said such horrid things about him. Chris, poor 
darling, aren’t you feeling awful — I am.” 

“Am I feeling sorry for Ambrose? No.” Christina 
searched her heart before she went on. “ I’m not sorry. 
Ambrose was so inevitably big. Something tremendous 
must come to him: it couldn’t be otherwise.” 

“I was afraid something might happen.” Evie shook 
her head wisely. “ This Greek man was very insulting. 
Ronnie told me that. And if poor Ambrose lost his tem- 
per — ” 

“ Ambrose did not lose his temper,” Christina interrupted 

194 


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195 


brusquely. “ If Ambrose killed him, he did it because he 
intended doing it.” 

“In cold blood!” Evie was horrified. 

“Yes: Ambrose must have had a reason. He tells me 
so — don’t gape, Evie, I’m not delirious. Ambrose is here. 
If I were blind and deaf and he sat on this bed he would 
be here, wouldn’t he? Presence doesn’t depend on seeing 
or hearing or even feeling. He’d be here if he was not 
allowed to touch me. Go back to bed, Evie. I’m sleepy and 
I want to dream.” 

Beryl arrived soon after eleven. Evie was out and Mrs. 
Colebrook, red-eyed, brought her up to the bedroom. Chris- 
tina was sure the girl would come and had got up and 
dressed in readiness. 

Some time went by before they were alone. Mrs. Cole- 
brook had her own griefs to express, her own memories to 
retail. She left at last singultient in her woe. 

“ Do you think you are strong enough to come to the 
house?” asked Beryl. “I could call for you this after- 
noon. Perhaps you could stay with me for a few days. I 
feel that I want you near to me.” 

This, without preliminary. They were too close to the 
elementals to pick nice paths to their objectives. They 
recognized and acknowledged their supreme interests as 
being common to both. 

“Mother would he glad to get rid of me for a day or 
two,” said Christina. 

“And I am sending my father abroad,” nodded Beryl, 
with a faint smile. “When shall I come?” 

“At three. You have not seen him?” 

Beryl shook her head. 


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“ They are taking him into the country. We shall never 
see him again,” she said simply. “ He will not send for 
us. I am trying to approach it all in the proper spirit of 
detachment. He is a little difficult to live up to — don’t 
you feel that?” 

“ If I say ‘ no ’ you will think I am eaten up with vanity,” 
said Christina with a quick smile. “ I am rather exalted 
at the moment, but the reaction will come perhaps, in which 
case I shall want to hang on to your understanding.” 

At three o’clock the car arrived. Mrs. Colebrook saw her 
daughter go without regret. Christina was unnatural. She 
had not shed a tear. Mrs. Colebrook had heard her laugh- 
ing and had gone up in a hurry to deal with hysteria, only 
to find her reading Stephen Leacock. She was appalled. 

“ I am surprised at you, Christina ! Here is poor — Mr. 
Sault in prison — ” Words failed her, she could only 
make miserable noises. 

“ Mother has given me up,” said Christina, when she was 
lying on a big settee in Beryl’s room, her thin hand out- 
stretched to the blaze. “Mother is a sort of female Heri- 
cletos — she finds her comfort in weeping.” 

Beryl was toasting a muffin at the fire. 

“ I wish it were a weeping matter,” she said, and went 
straight to the subject uppermost in her mind. “Morop- 
ulos took a photograph of me coming from Ronald Mo- 
relle’s flat. I had spent the night there.” She looked at the 
muffin and turned it. “ Moropulos was — nasty. He must 
have told Ambrose that he knew.” 

Christina stirred on the sofa. “ Did Ambrose know?” 

“Yes: I told him. Not the name of the man, but he 
guessed, I think — I know the photograph was in the safe. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


197 


He went to Ronnie. Perhaps to kill him. I imagine Ronnie 
lied for his life. The police were looking for Ambrose. 
The — killing of Moropulos was discovered by a man who 
heard the shot and the car had just passed through Woking 
after the police had been warned. A detective saw the car 
outside Ronnie’s flat and followed it. I don’t know all the 
details. Father has seen the inspector in charge of the case. 
Do you like sugar in your tea?” 

“ Two large pieces,” said Christina, “ I am rather a baby 
in my love of sugar. Do you love Ronnie very much. 
Beryl — you don’t mind?” 

“No — please. Love him? I suppose so: in a way. I 
despise him, I think he is loathsome, but there are times 
when I have a — wistful feeling. It may be sheer ungov- 
ernable — you know. Yet — I would make no sacrifice for 
Ronnie. I feel that. I have made no sacrifice. Women 
are hypocrites when they talk of ‘giving’: they make a 
martyrdom of their indulgence. Some women. And it 
pleases them to accept the masculine view of their irre- 
sponsibility. They love sympathy. For Ambrose I would 
sacrifice — everything. It is cheap to say that I would give 
my life. I have given more than my life. So have you.” 

Christina was silent. 

“I have faced — everything,” Beryl went on. She was 
sitting on a cushion between Christina and the fire, her tea 
cup in her hands. “You have also — haven’t you, Chris- 
tina?” 

“About Ambrose? Yes. He has passed. The law will 
kill him. He expects that. I think he would be uncom- 
fortable if he was spared. He told me once, that all the 
way out to New Caledonia, he grieved about the people who 


198 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


had been guillotined for the same offense as he had com- 
mitted. The unfairness of it! He never posed. Can you 
imagine him posing? I’ve seen him blush when I joked 
about that funny little trick of his; have you noticed it? 
Rubbing his chin with the back of his hand?” 

Beryl nodded. 

“ He said he had tried to get out of the habit,” Christina 
continued. “ No, Ambrose couldn’t pretend, or do a mean 
thing; or lie. I’m getting sentimental, my dear. Ambrose 
was distressed by sentimentality. Mother kissed his hand 
the day I stood for the first time. He was so bewildered!” 

They laughed together. 

“Are you marrying Steppe?” asked Christina. She felt 
no call to excuse the intimacy of the question. 

“I suppose so. There are reasons. At present he is 
rather impersonal. As impersonal as a marriage certificate 
or a church. I have no imagination perhaps. I shall not 
tell him. You don’t think I should — about Ronnie, I 
mean?” 

Christina shook her red head. “ No. As I see it, no. If 
you must marry him, you are doing enough without handing 
him another kind of whip to flog you with.” 

“I told Ambrose: that was enough,” said Beryl. “My 
conscience was for him. Steppe wants no more than he 
gives.” 

The clock chimed five. 

Ambrose at that moment was passing through the black 
gates of Wechester County Prison and Ronald Morelle was 
taking tea with Madame Ritti. 


IV 


Madame lived in a big house at St. John’s Wood. A 
South American minister had lived there, and had spent a 
fortune on its interior adornment. Reputable artists had 
embellished its walls and ceilings, and if the decorations 
were of the heavy florid type, it is a style which makes for 
grandeur. The vast drawing-room was a place of white 
and gold, of glittering candelabras and crimson velvet 
hangings. How Madame had come to be its possessor is a 
long and complicated story. The minister was recalled 
from London on the earnest representations of the Foreign 
Office and a budding scandal was denied its full and fas- 
cinating development. 

Madame had many friends, and her house was invariably 
full of guests. Some stayed a long time with her. She 
liked girls about her, she told the innocent vicar who called 
regularly, and might have been calling still, if his wife 
had not decided that if Madame required any spiritual 
consolation, she would put her own pew at her disposal. 

Her object (confessed Madame) was to give her guests 
a good time. She succeeded. She gave dances and enter- 
tained lavishly. She made one stipulation: that her visitors 
should not play cards. There was no gambling at Alemeda 
House. The attitude of the police authorities toward Ma- 
dame Ritti’s establishment was one of permanent expectancy. 
Good people, people with newspaper names, were guests of 
199 


200 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


hers: there was nothing furtive or underhand about her 
parties. Nobody had ever seen a drunken man come or go. 
The guests were never noisy only — Madame’s girl guests 
were many. And none of the people who came to the 
dances were women. 

Madame was bemoaning the skepticisms of the authori- 
ties to Ronnie. 

She was a very stout woman, expensively, but tastefully 
dressed. Her lined face was powdered, her lips vividly 
red. A duller red was her hair, patently dyed. Dyed hair 
on elderly women has the effect of making the face below 
seem more fearfully old. She wore two ropes of pearls 
and her hands glittered. 

Ronnie always went to Madame Ritti in his moments of 
depression ; he had known her since he was little more than 
a schoolboy. She had a house in Pimlico then, not so big 
or so finely furnished, but she had girl guests. 

“ You know, Ronnie, I try to keep my house respectable. 
Is it not so? One tries and tries and it is hard work. Girls 
have so little brain. They do not know that men do not 
really like rowdiness. Is it not so? But these policemen 
— oh, the dreadful fellows! They question my maids — 
and it is so difficult to get the right kind of maid. Imagine ! 
And the maids get frightened or impertinent,” she laid the 
accent on the last syllable. She was inclined to do this, 
otherwise her English was perfect. 

The door opened and a girl lounged in. She was smoking 
a cigarette through a holder — a fair, slim girl, with a 
straight fringe of golden hair over her forehead. 

Ronnie smiled and nodded. 

“Hello, Ronnie — where have you been hiding?” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


201 


Madame snorted. “ Is it thus you speak? ‘ Hello, Ron- 
nie,’ my word! And to walk in smoking! Lola, you have 
to learn.” 

“ I knew nobody else was here,” replied the girl instantly 
apologetic, “ Fm awfully sorry, Madame.” 

She hid the cigarette behind her and advanced demurely. 

“Why, it is Mr. Morelle! Ho\^ do you do?” 

“That is better, much better,” approved Madame, nod- 
ding her huge head. “ Always modesty in girls is the best. 
Is it not so, Ronnie? To rush about, fla — fla — fla!” Her 
representation of gaucherie was inimitable. “That is not 
good. Men desire modesty. Especially Englishmen. Ameri- 
cans, also. The French are indelicate. Is it not so? Men 
wish to win ; if you give them victory all ready, they do not 
appreciate it. That will do, Lola.” 

She dismissed the girl with a stately inclination of her 
head. 

“What have you been doing? We have not seen you 
for a very long time. You have other engagements? You 
must be careful. I fear for you sometimes,” she patted his 
arm. “You will come tonight? You must dress, of course. 
I do not receive men who are not in evening dress. Grand 
habit, you understand? The war made men very careless. 
The smoking jacket — tuxedo — what do you call it? and 
the black tie. That is no longer good style. If you are to 
meet ladies, you must wear a white bow and the white 
waistcoat with the long coat. I insist upon this. I am 
right, is it not so? All the men wear grand habit now- 
adays. What do you wish, Ronnie?” 

“Nothing in particular; I thought I would come along. 
I am feeling rather sick of life today.” 


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CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


She nodded. “ So you come to see my little friends. 
That is nice and they will be glad. All of them except 
Lola; she is going out to dinner tonight with a very great 
friend. You know your way: they are playing baccarat 
in the little salon. It amuses them and they only play for 
pennies.” 

Bonnie strolled off to seek entertainment in the little 
salon. 

He was rung up at his flat that evening four times. At 
midnight Steppe called him up again. 

“M’sieur, he has not returned. No, M’sieur, not even 
to dress.” 

Madame Ritti, for all the rigidity of her dress regula- 
tions, made exceptions seemingly. 

Ronald was sleeping soundly when Steppe strolled into 
his room and let up the blind with a crash. 

“Hullo?” Ronnie struggled up. “What time is it?” 

“Where were you last night?” Steppe’s voice was harsh, 
contumelious. “ I spent the night ringing you up. Have 
the police been here?” 

“Police, no. Why should they?” 

“Why should they!” mimicked the visitor, “because 
Sault stopped his car before the entrance of these flats. 
Luckily, they are not sure whether he went in or not. The 
detective who saw the car did not notice where Sault had 
come from. They asked me if there was anybody in 
Knightsbridge he would be likely to visit, and I said ‘ no ’, 
d’ye hear? No! I can’t have you in their hands, Morelle. 
A cur like you would squeal and they would find out why 
he came. And / don’t want to know,” 

The dark eyes bent on Ronnie were glittering. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


203 


“You hear? I don’t want to know. Moropulos is dead. 
In a week or two Sault will be dead and Beryl will be 
married. Why in hell do you jump?” 

Ronnie affected a yawn and reached out for his dressing 
gown. 

“Of course I jumped,” he was bold to say, even if he 
quaked inwardly. “You come thundering into my room 
when I’m half asleep and talk about police and Moropulos. 
Ugh! I haven’t your nerve. If you want to know, Sault 
came here to ask me where you were. I thought he was a 
little mad and told him you were out of town.” 

“You’re a liar — a feeble liar! Get up!” 

He stalked out of the room slamming the door behind 
him, and when Ronnie joined him, he was standing before 
the mantelpiece scowling at the Anthony. 

“Now listen. They will make enquiries and it is per- 
fectly certain that they will trace you as being a friend of 
Moropulos. I want to keep out of it, and so do you. At 
present they cannot connect me with the case except that I 
had dealings with Moropulos. So had hundreds of others. 
If they get busy with you they will turn you inside out; 
I don’t want you to get it into your head that I’m trying to 
save you trouble. I’m not. You could roast in hell and 
I’d not turn the hose on to you! I’m thinking of myself 
and all the trouble I should have if the police got you 
scared. Sault didn’t come here, huh? Was anybody here 
beside you?” he asked quickly. 

“Only Frangois.” 

“Your servant!” Steppe frowned. “Can you trust him?” 

Ronnie smiled. 

“ Frangois is discreet,” he said complacently. 


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CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


A shadow passed across Steppe’s dark face. 

“About the women who come here, yes; but with the 
police? That is different. Bring him in.” 

“I assure you, my dear fellow — ” 

“ Bring him here ! ” roared the other. 

Ronnie pressed a bell sulkily. 

“ Frangois, you were here in the flat on Saturday night, 
huh?” 

“Yes, M’sieur.” 

“You had no visitors, huh?” 

Francois hesitated. 

“No visitors, Francois: you didn’t open the door to 
Sault — you know Sault?” The man nodded. 

“And if detectives come to ask you whether Sault was 
here, you will tell them the truth — you did not see him. 
Your master had no visitors at all; you saw nobody and 
heard nobody.” 

He was looking into a leather pocketbook as he spoke, 
fingering the notes that filled one compartment. 

Frangois’ eyes were on the note case, too. 

“ Nobody came, M’sieur. I’ll swear. I was in the pantry 
all evening.” 

“ Good,” said Steppe, and slipped out four notes, crush- 
ing them into a ball. 

“ Do you want to see me, today?” asked Ronnie, and his 
uncomfortable guest glared. 

“ Not today. Nor tomorrow, nor any day. Where were 
you last night?” 

Frangois retired in his discretion. 

“I went to Brighton — ” 

“You went to Ritti’s — that — 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


205 


He did not attempt any euphemism. Madame Ritti’s 
elegant establishment he described in two pungent words. 

“God! You’re — what are you? Fm pretty tough, huh? 
Had my gay times and known a few of the worst. But I’ve 
drawn a line somewhere. Sault in prison and Moropulos 
dead — and you at Ritti’s! What a louse you are!” 

He stalked into the hall, shouted for Francois and 
dropped the little paper ball into his hand. Francois closed 
the door on him respectfully. 

“A beast — !” said Ronnie, disgusted. 


V 


Instructed by Steppe to defend him, a solicitor inter- 
viewed Ambrose Sault in his airy cell. He expected to 
find a man broken by his awful position. He found instead, 
a cheerful client who, when he was ushered into the cell, 
was engaged in covering a large sheet of paper with minute 
figures. A glance at the paper showed the wondering 
officer of the law that Sault was working out a problem in 
mathematics. It was, in fact, a differential equation of a 
high and complex character. 

“ It is very kind of Mr. Steppe, but I don’t know what 
you can do, sir. I killed Moropulos. I killed him deliber- 
ately. Poor soul ! How glad it must have been to have left 
that horrible body with all its animal weaknesses! I was 
thinking about it last night: wondering where it would be. 
Somewhere in the spaces of the night — between the stars. 
Don’t you often wonder whether a soul has a chemical 
origin? Some day clever men will discover. Souls have 
substance, more tenuous than light. And light has sub- 
stance. You can bend light with a magnet: I have seen it 
done. The ether has substance: compared with other un- 
known elements, ether may be as thick as treacle. Supposing 
some super-supernatural scientist could examine the ether 
as we examine a shovel full of earth? Is it not possible 
that the soul germ might be discovered? For a soul has 
no size and no weight and no likeness to man. Some people 
206 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


207 


think of a soul as having the appearance of the body which 
it inspires. That is stupid. If death can cling to the point 
of a needle and life grows from a microscopic organism, 
how infinitesimal is the cell of the soul! The souls of all 
the men and the women of the world might be brought 
together and be lost on one atom of down on a butterfly’s 
wing I ” 

The lawyer listened hopefully. Here was a case for 
eminent alienists. He saw the governor of the jail as he 
went out. 

“ I should very much like this man to be kept under 
medical observation,” he said. “From my conversation 
with him, I am satisfied that he isn’t normal.” 

“He seems sane enough,” replied the governor, “but I 
will speak to the doctor; I suppose you will send specialists 
down?” 

“I imagine we shall; he isn’t normal. He practically 
refuses to discuss the crime — occupied the time by talking 
about souls and the size of ’em! If that isn’t lunacy, then 
Fm mad!” 

Steppe, to whom he reported, was very thoughtful. 

“ He isn’t mad. Sault is a queer fellow, but he isn’t mad. 
He thinks about such things. He is struggling to the light 
— those were the words he used to me. Yes, you can send 
doctors down if you wish. You have briefed Maxton?” 
The lawyer nodded. 

“ He wasn’t very keen on the job. It is a little out of his 
line. Besides, he’ll be made a judge in a year or two, and 
naturally he doesn’t want to figure on the losing side. In 
fact, he turned me down definitely, but I was hardly back 
in my o£&ce — his chambers are less than five minutes walk 


208 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


away — before he called me up and said he’d take the 
brief. I was surprised. He is going down to Wechester 
next week.” 

Steppe grunted. 

“You understand that my name doesn’t appear in this 
except to Maxton, of course. I dare say that if I went on 
to the witness stand and told all I knew about Moropulos 
and what kind of a brute he was, my evidence might make 
a difference. But I’m not going and your job is to keep 
me out of this, Smith.” 

Steppe’s attitude was definite and logical. Sault, in a 
measure, he admired without liking. He saw in him a 
difficult, and possibly a dangerous, man. That he had 
piqued his employer by his independence and courage did 
not influence Steppe one way or another. It was, in truth, 
the cause of his admiration. Sault was a man in possession 
of a dangerous secret. The folly of entrusting two other 
men with the combination word of the safe had been 
apparent from the first. He had been uneasy in his mind, 
more because of the unknown reliability of Moropulos, 
than because he mistrusted Sault, and he had decided that 
the scheme for the storage of compromising documents 
possessed too many disadvantages. Without telling either 
of his associates, he had arranged to transfer the contents 
of the safe to his own custody when the disaster occurred. 
The safe was in the hands of the curious police. And the 
more he thought about the matter, the more undesirable it 
seemed that the safe should be opened. It contained, 
amongst other things, the draft of a prospectus which had 
since been printed — the shares went to allotment two days 
before the murder. The draft was in his own hand, a dozen 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


209 


sheets of pencilled writing, and it described in optimistic 
language certain valuable assets which were in fact non- 
existent. The financial press had remarked upon the fact, 
and not content with remarking once, had industriously 
continued to remark. Steppe had made a mistake, and it 
was a bad mistake. The cleverest of company promotors 
occasionally overstep the line that divides the optimistic 
estimate from misrepresentation. Fortunately, his name 
did not appear on the prospectus; most unfortunately, he 
had preserved the draft. He had put it aside after Dr. 
Merville had copied the document. He had a reason for 
this. Jan Steppe seldom appeared in such transactions: 
even his name as vendor was skilfully camouflaged under 
the title of some stock-holding company. He was a supreme 
general who issued his orders to his commanders: gave 
them the rough plan of their operations, and left them to 
lick it into shape. It sometimes happened that they devi- 
ated from his instructions, generally to the advantage of 
the scheme they were working: occasionally they fell short 
of his requirements and then his draft proved useful in 
emphasizing their error. And this was only one of the 
safe’s contents. There were others equally dangerous. 

Steppe believed that his servant would die. To say that 
he hoped he would die would be untrue. Belief makes hope 
superfluous. It was politic to spend money on the defense 
of a man who, being grateful, would also be loyal. He 
could accept Sault’s death with equanimity, and without 
regret. With relief almost. Evidence could be given which 
would show Moropulos in an unfavorable light. The Greek 
was a drunkard: his reputation was foul: he was provoca- 
tive and quarrelsome. The weapon was his own (Sault 


210 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


had once taken it away from him) a plea of self-defense 
might succeed — always providing that Mr. Jan Steppe 
would submit himself to cross-examination, and the reflected 
odium of acquaintance with the dead man and his killer. 

And Mr. Jan Steppe was firmly determined to do nothing 
of the kind. Sault would carry his secret to the grave 
unless — suppose this infernal photograph which Morop- 
ulos had put into the safe — suppose Sault mentioned this 
to the lawyers: but he would be loyal. Steppe, having 
faith in his loyalty, decided to let him die. 

Sir John Maxton had changed his mind on the question 
of defending Sault as a result of an urgent request which 
had reached him immediately after the solicitor had left 
his chambers. 

He called on Beryl Merville on his way home. She was 
alone. Christina had returned to her mother,, and Dr. 
Merville was at Cannes, mercifully ignorant of the com- 
ments which the financial newspapers were passing upon 
a company of which he was president. 

“ I will undertake the defense. Beryl, though I confess 
it seems to me a hopeless proposition. I had just that 
moment refused the brief when you rang through. If I 
remember aright, I have met Sault — wasn’t he that strong 
looking man who came to Steppe’s house the night we were 
dining there? I thought so. And Moropulos — who was 
he? Not the drunken fellow who made such a fool of 
himself? By jove! I hadn’t connected them — I have only 
glanced at the brief and I am seeing Sault on Friday. 
Fortunately, I am spending the week-end in the country, 
and I can call in on my way. Smith is attending to the 
inquest and the lower Court proceedings. I saw Smith (he 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


211 


is the solicitor) this afternoon: he tells me that Steppe is 
paying for the defense. That is a professional secret, by 
the way. He also surprised me by expressing the view 
that Sault is mad.” 

Beryl smiled. “ He is not mad,” she said quietly, “ why 
does he think so?” 

Sir John humped his thin shoulders: a movement indica- 
tive of his contempt for the lawyer’s opinion on any subject. 

“Apparently Sault talked about souls as though they 
were microbes. Smith, being a God-fearing man, was 
shocked. To him the soul stands in the same relationship 
to the body as the inner tube of a tire to the cover. He is 
something of a spiritualist, and spiritualism is the most 
material of the occult sciences — it insists that spirits shall 
have noses and ears like other respectable ghosts. From 
what he said, I couldn’t make head or tail of Sault’s view.” 

“ Ambrose is not mad,” said the girl, “ he is the sanest 
man I have ever met, or will meet. His view is different: 
he himself is different. You cannot judge him by any 
ordinary standard.” 

“You call him ‘Ambrose’,” said Sir John in surprise, 
“is he a friend of yours?” 

“Yes.” 

She said no more than that, and he did not press the 
question. It was impossible to explain Ambrose. 


VI 

A CALL at the Colebrook’s in the afternoon or evening 
had become a regular practice since Christina had stayed 
with her. Evie had very carefully avoided being at home 
when Beryl called. 

“I’m sorry I don’t like your aristocratic friend, and I 
know it is a great comfort to have somebody to speak to, 
about poor Mr. Sault, hut I simply can’t stand her. Ronnie 
says that he quite understands my dislike. Christina, do 
you think Miss Merville is a — you won’t be offended, will 
you? Do you think she is a good girl?” 

“Good? Do you mean, does she go to church?” 

“Don’t he silly. Do you think she is a — virtuous girl? 
Ronnie says that some of these society women are awfully 
fast. He says it wouldn’t be so bad if there was love in it, 
because love excuses everything, and the real wicked people 
are those who marry for money.” 

“ Like Beryl,” said Christina, “ and love may excuse 
everything — like you — he hopes.” 

Evie sighed patiently. 

“Do you know what I think about Ronnie?” asked 
Christina. 

“ I’m sure I don’t want to know,” snapped Evie, roused 
out of her attitude of martyrdom. 

212 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


213 


“ I think he is a damned villain! — shut up, I’m going to 
say it. I think he is the very lowest blackguard that walks 
the earth! He is — ” 

But Evie had snatched up her coat and fled from the 
room. 

Christina’s orders from the osteopath were to go to bed 
early. She was making extraordinary progress and had 
walked unassisted down the stairs that very day — she was 
lying dressed on the bed when Beryl arrived. 

“ I suppose you’ll liken me to the squire’s good wife 
visiting the indigent sick,” she said, “but I’ve brought a 
basket of things — fruit mostly. Do you mind?” 

“ I’ve always wanted to meet Lady Bountiful,” said Chris- 
tina. “ I thought she never stepped from the Christmas 
magazine covers. Did you meet Evie?” 

“No, I thought she was out.” 

“ She’s hiding in the scullery,” said Christina calmly. 

“She doesn’t like me. Ronnie, I suppose?” 

Christina nodded. “ Ronnie at first hand may be endur- 
able : as interpreted by Evie he is — there is only one word 
to describe him — I promised mother that I would never 
use it again. Any news?” 

Beryl nodded. “I had a letter — ” 

“ So did I ! ” said Christina triumphantly, and drew a 
blue envelope from her blouse. 

“ Written by the prison chaplain and dictated by Am- 
brose. Such a typical letter — all about the kindness of 
everybody and a minute description of the cell intended, 
I think, to show how comfortable he is.” 

Christina had had a similar letter. 

“ Sir John Maxton is defending him,” said Beryl. “ That 


214 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


is what I have come to tell you. He is a very great ad- 
vocate.” 

They looked at one another, and each had the same 
thought. 

“ The best lawyer and the kindest judge and the most 
sympathetic jury would not save Ambrose,” said Christina, 
and they looked for a long time into one another’s eyes and 
neither saw fear. 

Beryl did not stay long. They ran into a blind alley of 
conversation after that: a time of long quietness. 

Jan Steppe was waiting in the drawing-room when she 
returned. The maid need not have told her: she sensed 
his presence before the door was opened. She had seen 
very little of Steppe, remembering that she had engaged 
herself to marry him. She did not let herself think much 
about it: she had not been accurate when she told Chris- 
tina that she had no imagination. It was simply that she 
did not allow herself the exercise of her gift. The same 
idea had occurred to Jan Steppe — he had seen little of 
her. He was a great believer in clearing up things as he 
went along. An unpleasant, but profitable, trait of his. 

“Been waiting for you an hour: you might leave word 
how long you’ll be out, huh. Beryl?” 

A foretaste, she thought, of the married man, but she was 
not offended. That was just how she expected Steppe would 
talk: probably he would swear at her when he knew her 
better. Nevertheless — 

“ I go and come as I please,” she said without heat. 
“You must be prepared to put me under lock and key if 
you expect to find me in any given place, at any given time. 
And then I should divorce you for cruelty.” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


215 


He did not often show signs of amusement. He smiled 
now. 

“So that’s your plan. Sit down by me, Beryl, I want 
a little talk.” 

She obeyed: he put his arm about her, and looking down, 
she saw his big hairy hand gripping her waist. 

“ Why are you shaking. Beryl? You’re not frightened of 
me, huh?” he asked, bending his swarthy face to hers. 

“I — I don’t know.” Her teeth were chattering. She 
was frightened. In a second all her philosophy had failed 
and her courage had gone out like a blown flame. Every 
reserve of will was concentrated now in an effort to pre- 
vent herself screaming. Training, education, culture, all 
that civilization stood for, crashed at the touch of him. She 
was woman, primitive and unreasoning: woman in contact 
with savage mastery. 

“God! What’s the matter, huh? You expect to be 
kissed, don’t you? I’m going to be your husband, huh? 
Expect to be kissed then, don’t you? What is the matter 
with you?” 

She got up from the sofa, her legs sagging beneath her. 

Looking, he saw her face was colorless: Steppe was 
alarmed. He wanted her badly. She had the appeal which 
other women lacked, qualities which he himself lacked. 
And he had frightened her. Perhaps she would break off 
everything. He expected to see the ring torn from her 
trembling hand and thrown on the floor at his feet. Instead 
of that: 

“ I am very sorry, Mr. Steppe — foolish of me. I’ve had 
rather a trying day.” She was breathless, as though she 
had been running at a great pace. 


216 


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“ Of course, Beryl, I understand. I’m too rough with 
you, huh? Why, it is I who should be sorry, and I am. 
Good friends, huh?” 

He held out his hand, and shivering, she put her cold 
palm in his. 

“Doctor coming back soon? That’s fine. You haven’t 
sent him on any newspapers, huh? No, he could get them 
there.” 

Other commonplaces, and he left her to work back to 
the cause of her fright. 

With reason again enthroned (this was somewhere near 
four o’clock in the morning) she could find no other reason 
than the obvious one. She was afraid of Steppe as a man. 
Not because he was a man, but because he was the kind of 
man that he was. He was a better man than Ronnie, she 
argued. He had principles of sorts. Ronnie had none. 
Perhaps she would get used to him: up to that moment it 
did not occur to her to break her engagement, and curiously 
enough, she never thought of her father. Steppe was sure 
in his mind that he held her through Dr. Merville. That was 
not true. Neither sense of honor nor filial duty bound her 
to her promise, nor was marriage an expiation. She must 
wear away her life in some companionship. After, was' 
Ambrose Sault, in what shape she did not know or consider. 
She never thought of him as an angel. 


VII 


Sometimes the brain plays a trick upon you. In the 
midst of your everyday life you have a vivid yet elusive 
recollection of a past which is strange to you. You see 
yourself in circumstances and in a setting wholly unfa- 
miliar. Like a flash it comes and goes; as swiftly as the 
shutter of a camera falls. Flick! It is gone and you can 
recall no incident upon which you can reconstruct the 
vision of the time-fraction. Beryl saw herself as she had 
been before she came upon a shabby gray-haired man 
studying the wallpaper in the hall of Dr. Merville’s house. 
Yet she could never fix an impression. If the change of 
her outlook had been gradual, she might have traced back 
step by step. But it had been violent: catastrophic. And 
this bewildering truth appeared; that there had been no 
change so far as Ronnie was concerned. He had not altered 
in any degree her aspect of life. It worried her that it 
should be so. But there it was. 

She had a wire from her father the next morning to say 
that he was returning at once. Dr. Merville had seen cer- 
tain comments in the newspaper and was taking the next 
train to Paris. 

She did not ga to the station to meet him and was not 
in the house when he arrived. Even in the days that fol- 
lowed she saw little of him, for he seemed to have pressing 
217 


218 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


business which kept him either at Steppe’s office or Steppe’s 
house. One night she went to dinner there. It was a meal 
remarkable for one circumstance. Although Sault was 
coming up for trial the following week, they did not speak 
of him. It was as though he were already passed from the 
world. She was tempted once to raise his name, but re- 
frained. Discussion would he profitless, for they would 
only expose the old platitudes and present the conven- 
tional gestures. 

In the car as they drove home the doctor was spuriously 
cheerful. His lighter manner generally amused Beryl; 
now her suspicions were aroused, for of late, her father’s 
laborious good humor generally preceded a request for 
some concession on her part. 

It was not until she was saying good night that he re- 
vealed the nature of his request. 

“ Don’t you think it would be a good idea if you cut 
your engagement as short as possible, dear?” he asked 
with an effort to appear casual. “ Steppe doesn’t want a 
big wedding — one before the civil authorities with a few 
close friends to lunch afterwards — ” 

“You mean he wants to marry at once?” 

“Well — not at once, but — er — er — in a week or so. 
Personally, I think it is an excellent scheme. Say in a 
month — ” 

“No, no!” she was vehement in her objection, “not in 
a month. I must have more time. I’m very sorry, father, 
if I am upsetting your plans.” 

“ Not at all,” said his lips. His face told another story. 

Possibly Steppe had issued peremptory instructions. She 
was certain that if she had accepted his views meekly, the 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


219 


doctor would have named the date and the hour. Steppe 
may have expressed his desire, also, that she should he 
married in gray. He was the sort of man who would want 
his bride to wear gray. 

Jan Steppe, for all his wealth and experience, retained 
in some respects the character of his Boer ancestors. His 
dearest possession was a large family Bible, crudely illus- 
trated, and this he cherished less for its message (printed 
in the taal) than for the family records that covered four 
flyleaves inserted for the purpose. He liked wax fruit 
under glass shades and there hung in his library crayon 
enlargements of his parents, heavily framed in gold. He 
was a member of the Dutch Reformed Church and main- 
tained a pew in the kirk at Heidelberg where he was born 
and christened. (^He believed in the rights of husbands to 
exact implicit obedience from their wives. The ultimate 
value of women was their prolificacy; he might forgive 
unfaithfulness; sterility was an unpardonable offens^’ 
Springing, as he did, from a race of cattle farmers, he 
thought of values in terms of stock breeding. 

Instinctively Beryl had discovered this: on this discovery 
her repugnance was based, though she never realized the 
cause until long afterwards. 

The day of the trial was near at hand. Sir John Maxton 
had had two interviews with his client. After the second, 
he called on her. 

“I haven’t seen you since I met him, have I? Your 
Sault! What is he, in the name of heaven? He fascinates 
me. Beryl, fascinates me! Sometimes I wish I had never 
taken the brief — not because of the hopelessness of it — 
it is hopeless, you know — but — ” 


220 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“But?” she repeated, when he paused, puzzling to ex- 
press himself clearly. 

“He is amazing: I have never met anybody like him. 
I am not particularly keen on my fellows, perhaps I know 
them too well and have seen too much of their meannesses, 
their evilness. But Sault is different. I went to discuss his 
case and found myself listening to his views on immor- 
tality. He says that what we call immortality can be re- 
duced to mathematical formulae. He limited the infinite to 
a circle, and convinced me. I felt like a fourth form boy 
listening to a ‘brain’ and found myself being respectful! 
But it wasn’t that — it was a sweetness, a clearness — some- 
thing Christlike. Queer thing to say about a man who has 
committed two murders, both in cold blood, but it is a fact. 
Beryl, it is impossible to save him, it is only fair to tell 
you. I cannot help feeling that if we could get at the 
character of this man Moropulos, he would have a chance, 
but he absolutely refuses to talk of Moropulos. ‘ I did it,’ 
he says, ‘what is the use? I shot him deliberately. He 
was drunk: I was in no danger from him. I shot him be- 
cause I wanted him to die. When I walked over to where 
he lay, he was dead. If he had been alive I should have 
shot him again.’ What can one do? If he had been any- 
body else, I should have retired from the case. 

“There is a safe in this case, probably you have read 
about it in the newspapers. It was found in the Greek’s 
house, and is a sort of secret repository. At any rate, it 
cannot be opened except by somebody who knows the code 
word. I suspected Sault of being one who could unlock 
the door and challenged him. He did not deny his knowl- 
edge but declined to give me the word. He never lies: if 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


221 


he says he doesn’t know, it is not worth while pressing him 
because he really doesn’t know. Beryl, would your father 
have any knowledge of that safe?” 

She shook her head. “ It is unlikely, but I will ask him. 
Father says that Ronnie is going to the trial. Is he a 
witness?” 

Sir John had, as it happened, seen Ronnie that day and 
was able to inform her. “Ronnie is writing the story of 
the trial for a newspaper. What has Sault done to him? 
He is particularly vicious about him. In a way I can 
understand the reason if they had ever met. Sault is the 
very antithesis of Ronnie. They would ‘swear’, like vio- 
lently different colors. I asked him if he would care to 
stay with me — I have had the Kennivens’ house placed at 
my disposal, they are at Monte Carlo — but he declined 
with alacrity. Why does he hate Sault? He says that he 
is looking forward to the trial.” 

6eryl smiled. “For lo, the wicked bend the bow that 
they may shoot in the darkness at the upright heart,” she 
quoted. 


VIII 


Ronald Morelle also found satisfaction in apposite 
quotations from the Scriptures. When he was at school 
the boys had a game which was known as “ trying the luck.” 
They put a Bible on the table, inserted a knife between the 
leaves, and whatever passage the knife-point rested against, 
was one which solved their temporary difficulties. 

Ronnie had carried this practice with him, and whenever 
a problem arose, he would bring down The Book and seek 
a solution. He utilized for this purpose a miniature sword 
which he had bought in Toledo, a copy of the Sword of the 
Constable. It was a tiny thing, a few inches in length. Its 
handle was of gold, its glittering blade an example of the 
best that the Fabrica produced. 

“ It is really wonderful how helpful it is, Christina,” 
said Evie, to whom he had communicated the trick. “ The 
other day, when I was wondering whether you would be 
better for good, or whether this was only, so to speak, a 
flash in the pan — because I really don’t believe in osteo- 
paths, they aren’t proper doctors — I stuck a hat pin in the 
Bible and what do you think it said?” 

“Beware of osteopaths?” suggested Christina lazily. 

“No, it said, ‘Make me to hear joy and gladness, that 
the bone which Thou hast broken may rejoice!’” 

“My bones were never broken,” said Christina, and 
asked with some curiosity: “How do you reconcile your 
222 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


223 


normal holiness with playing monkey tricks with the 
Bible?” 

“ It isn’t anything of the sort,” replied Evie tartly, “ the 
Bible is supposed to help you in your difficulties.” 

“Anyway, my bones rejoice to hear that Ronnie is such 
a Bible student,” said Christina. 

Evie knew that to discuss Ronald Morelle with her sister 
would be a waste of time. Ronnie was to her the perfect 
man. She even found, in what Christina described as a 
“ monkey trick ”, a piety with which she had never dreamed 
of crediting him. Christina was unjust, but she hoped in 
time to change her opinions. In the meantime, Ronald 
Morelle was molding Evie’s opinions in certain essentials 
pertaining to social relationship, and insensibly, her views 
were veering to the course he had set. She had definitely 
accepted his attitude toward matrimony. She felt terribly 
advanced and superior to her fellows and had come to the 
point where she sneered when a wedding procession passed 
her. So far, her assurance, her complete plerophory of 
Ronnie’s wisdom rested in the realms of untested theory. 

But the time was coming when she must practice all 
that Ronnie preached, and all that she believed. She was 
no fool, however intense her self-satisfaction. She was 
narrow, puritanical, in the sense to which that term has 
been debased, and eminently respectable. He might have 
converted her to devil worship and she would have re- 
mained respectable. Ronnie was going abroad after the 
trial. He had made money, and although he was not a 
very rich man, he had in addition to the solid fortune he 
had acquired through his association with Steppe, a regular 
income from his father’s estate. He intended breaking with 


224 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


Steppe and was in negotiation for villas in the south of 
France and in Italy. Evie knew that she would accompany 
him, if he insisted. She knew equally well that she would 
no longer be accounted respectable. That thought horrified 
her. To her, a wedding ring was adequate compensation 
for many inconveniences. The fascinations of Ronnie were 
wearing thin: familiarity, without breeding contempt, had 
produced a mutation of values. The “ exceedingly marvel- 
ous ” had become the “ pleasantly habitual.” And she had, 
by accident, met a boy she had known years before. He 
had gone out to Canada with his parents and had returned 
with stories of immense spaces and snow-clad mountains 
and cozy farms, stories that had interested and unsettled 
her. And he had been so impressed by her, and so humble 
in the face of her imposing worldliness. Ronnie was, of 
course, never humble, and though he called her his beloved, 
she did not impress him, or make him blush, or feel gauche. 
She had more of the grand lady feeling with Teddy Williams 
than she could ever experience in the marble villas of 
Palermo. And Teddy placed a tremendously high value 
upon respectability. Still — he could not be compared 
with Ronnie. 

She had consented to pay a visit to Ronnie’s flat. She 
was halfway to losing her respectability when she reluc- 
tantly agreed, but the thrill of the projected adventure put 
Teddy Williams out of her mind. The great event was to 
be on the day after Ronnie came back from Wechester. 

In the meanwhile, Ronnie, anticipating a dull stay at the 
assize town, made arrangements to fill in his time pleas- 
antly. 

The day before he left London he called on Madame 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


225 


Ritti and Madame gave a sympathetic hearing to his propo- 
sition. 

“Yes, it will amuse Lola, but she must travel with her 
maid. One must be careful, is it not so? One meets people 
in such unlikely places and I will not have a word spoken 
against my dear girls.” 


IX 


The case of the King against Ambrose Sault came on 
late in the afternoon of the third assize day. The assizes 
opened on the Monday and the first two and a half days 
were occupied by the hearing of a complicated case of 
fraudulent conversion; it was four o’clock in the afternoon 
when Sault, escorted by three warders, stepped into the 
pen and listened to the reading of the indictment. 

It was charged against him that “ He did wilfully kill 
and murder Paul Dimitros Moropulos by shooting at him 
with a revolving pistol with intent to kill and murder the 
aforesaid Paul Dimitros Moropulos.” 

He pleaded “ Guilty ”, but by the direction of the Court, 
a technical plea of “ Not Guilty ” was entered in accordance 
with the practice of the law. The proceedings were neces- 
sarily short, the reading of the indictment, the swearing in 
of the jury, and the other preliminaries were only disposed 
of before the Court rose. 

Wechester Assize Court dates back to the days of antiq- 
uity. There is a legend that King Arthur sat in the great 
outer hall, a hollow cavern of a place with vaulted stone 
roof and supporting pillars worn smooth by contact with 
the backs of thirty generations of litigants waiting their turn 
to appear in the tiny court house. 

“ I knew I was going to have a dull time,” complained 
Ronnie. “Why on earth didn’t they start the trial on 
Monday?” 


226 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


227 


“Partly because I could not arrive until today,” said 
Sir John. “ The judge very kindly agreed to postpone the 
hearing to suit my convenience. I had a big case in town. 
Partly, so the judge tells me, because he wanted to dispose 
of the fraud charges before he took the murder case. Are 
you really very dull, Ronnie?” He looked keenly at the 
other. 

“Wouldn’t anybody be dull in a town that offers no other 
amusement than a decrepit cinema?” 

“ I thought I caught a glimpse of you as I was coming 
from the station, and, unless I was dreaming, I saw you 
driving with a lady — it is not like you to be dull when 
you have feminine society.” 

“ She was the daughter of a very old friend of mine,” 
said Ronnie conventionally. 

“You are fortunate in having so many old friends with 
so many pretty daughters,” said Sir John drily. 

Ronnie was in court at ten o’clock the following morning. 
The place was filled, the narrow public gallery packed. 
The scarlet robed judge came in, preceded by the High 
Sheriff, and followed by his chaplain; a few seconds later 
came the sound of Ambrose Sault’s feet on the stairway 
leading to the dock. 

He walked to the end of the pen, rested his big hands on 
the ledge and bowed to the judge. And then his eyes roved 
round the court. They rested smilingly upon Sir John, 
bewigged and gowned, passed incuriously over the press 
table and stopped at Ronald Morelle. His face was in- 
scrutable: his thoughts, whatever they were, found no ex- 
pression. Ronald met his eyes and smiled. This man had 
come to him with murder in his heart: but for Ronnie’s 


228 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


ready wit and readier lie, his name, too, would have 
appeared in the indictment. That was his thought as he 
returned the gaze. Here was his enemy trapped: beyond 
danger. His smile was a taunt and an exultation. Sault’s 
face was not troubled, his serenity was undisturbed. Rather, 
it seemed to Sir John, who was watching him, that there 
was a strange benignity in his countenance, that humanized 
and transfigured him. 

Trials always wearied Ronnie. They were so slow, so 
tedious: there were so many fiddling details, usually unim- 
portant, to be related and analyzed. Why did they take the 
trouble? Sault was guilty by his own confession, and yet 
they were treating him as though he were innocent. What 
did it matter whether it was eight or nine o’clock when the 
policeman stopped the car in Woking and asked Sault to 
produce his license? Why bother with medical evidence as 
to the course the bullet took — Moropulos was dead, did it 
matter whether the bullet was nickel or lead? 

From time to time sheer ennui drove him out of the 
court. He had no work to do — his description of Sault 
in the dock, his impression of the court scene, had been 
written before he left his hotel. The verdict was inevitable. 

Yet still they droned on, these musty lawyers; still the 
old man on the bench interjected his questions. 

Sir John, in his opening speech, had discounted his 
client’s confession. Sault felt that he was morally guilty. 
It was for the jury to say whether he was guilty in law. 
A man in fear of his life had the right to defend himself, 
even if in his defense he destroyed the life of the attacker. 
The revolver was the property of Moropulos, was it not 
fair to suppose that Moropulos had carried the pistol for 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


229 


the purpose of intimidating Sault, that he had actually 
threatened him with the weapon? And the judge had taken 
this possibility into account and his questions were directed 
to discovering the character and habits of the dead man. 

Steppe, had he been in the box, would have saved the 
prisoner’s life. Ronnie Morelle knew enough to enlighten 
the judge. Steppe had not come, Ronnie would have been 
amused if it were suggested that he should speak. 

The end of the trial came with startling suddenness. 

Ronnie was out of court when the jury retired, and he 
hurried back as they returned. 

The white-headed associate rose from behind his book- 
covered table and the jury answered to their names. 

“Gentlemen of the jury, have you considered your ver- 
dict?” 

“We have.” 

The voice of the foreman was weak and almost inaudible. 

“Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not 
guilty?” 

A pause. 

“Guilty.” 

There was a sound like a staccato whisper. A quick 
explosion of soft sound, and then silence. 

“Ambrose Sault, what have you to say that my lord 
should not condemn you to die?” 

Ambrose stood easily in the dock: both hands were on 
the ledge before him and his head was bent in a listening 
posture. 

“Nothing.” 

His cheerful voice rang through the court. Ronnie saw 
him look down to the place where Sir John was sitting, and 


230 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


smile, such a smile of encouragement and sympathy as a 
defending lawyer might give to his condemned client; 
coming from the condemned to the advocate, it was unique. 

The judge was sitting stiffly erect. He was a man of 
seventy, thin and furrowed of face. Over his wig lay a 
square of black silk, a corner drooped to his forehead. 

“ Prisoner at the bar, the jury have found the only ver- 
dict which it was possible for them to return after hearing 
the evidence.” He stopped here, and Ronnie expected to 
hear the usual admonition which precedes the formal sen- 
tence, but the judge went on to the performance of his dread 
duty. “The sentence of this court is, and this court doth 
ordain, that you be taken from the place whence you came, 
and from thence to a place of execution, and there you shall 
be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and your body 
shall afterwards be buried within the precincts of the prison 
in which you were last confined. And may God have mercy 
upon your soul.” 

Ambrose listened, his lips moving. He was repeating to 
himself word by word the sentence of the law. He had the 
appearance of a man who was intensely interested. 

A warder touched his arm and awoke him from his 
absorption. He started, smiled apologetically, and, turn- 
ing, walked down the stairs and out of sight. 

“Good-bye, my friend — I shall see you once again,” 
said Ronnie. 

He had decided to leave nothing undone that would 
authorize his presence at the execution. 

Going into the hall to see the procession of the judge 
with his halberdiers and his trumpet men, he saw Sir John 
passing and his eyes were red. Ronnie was amused. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


231 


“Are you traveling back to town tonight, Ronnie?” 

“ No, Sir John. I leave in the morning.” 

Sir John wrinkled his brows in thought. 

“You saw him? Did you ever see a man like him? I 
am bewildered and baffled. Poor Sault, and yet why 
‘ poor ’? Poor world, I think, to lose a soul as great as 
his.” 

“ He is also a murderer,” said Ronnie with gentle sar- 
casm. “ He has brutally killed two men — ” 

“There is nothing brutal in Ambrose Sault,” Sir John 
checked himself. “ I go back by the last train. I am 
dining with the judge in his lodgings and he told me I 
might bring you along.” 

“Thank you. I’ve a lot of work to do,” said Ronnie 
so hastily that the other searched his face. 

“I suppose you are alone here?” 

“ Quite — the truth is, I promised to drive with a friend 
of mine.” 

“A man?” 

Lola came through the big doors at that moment. 

“I was looking for you, Ronnie — my dear, I am bored 
to tears — ” 

Sir John looked after them and shook his head. 

“ Rotten,” he said. That a man could bring his light o’ 
love to this grim carnival of pain! 


X 


Late in the afternoon Christina received a note delivered 
by hand. 

“ Mother, would you mind if I spent the night with Miss 
Merville?” 

Mrs. Colebrook shook her head without speaking. In 
these days she lived in an atmosphere of gloom, for she 
had adopted the right of chief griever. 

“Nobody else seems to care about poor Mr. Sault,” she 
had said many times. “ I really can’t understand you, 
Christina, after all he has done for you. I won’t say that 
you’re heartless, because I will never believe that about a 
child of mine. You’re young.” 

“ Do you think Mr. Sault would like to know that you 
go weeping about the house for his sake?” asked Christina 
patiently. 

“Of course he would! I would like somebody to grieve 
over me and I’m sure he’d like to know that somebody was 
dropping a silent tear over him.” 

On the whole, Mrs. Colebrook preferred to be alone that 
night. The late editions would have the result of the trial. 
Evie would be out, too. She was going to a theatre with 
Teddy Williams. That, Mrs. Colebrook thought, was heart- 
less, but Evie had an excuse. Mr. Sault had done nothing 
for her: had even quarreled with her. 

So Christina went gladly to her new friend. She saw the 

232 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


233 


doctor for a minute in the hall and in his professional 
mood, Dr. Merville was charming. 

“You open up vistas of a new career for me, Miss Cole- 
brook,” he laughed. “With you as a shining example, I 
am almost inclined to take up osteopathy in my old age! 
Really, you have mended wonderfully.” 

In Beryl’s little room she heard the news. 

“We expected it, of course,” she said. “Did Sir John 
wire anything about Ambrose — how he bore it?” 

“ Yes, here is the telegram.” 

Christina read : “ Sault sentenced to death. He showed 
splendid courage and calmness.” 

“ Naturally he would,” said Christina quietly. “ I am 
glad the strain is over, not that I think it was a strain for 
him. Beryl, I hope we are going to be worthy disciples of 
our friend? There are times when I am very afraid. It is 
a heavy burden for a badly equipped mind like mine. But 
I think I shall go through without making a weak fool of 
myself. I almost wish that 1 was marrying Jan Steppe. 
The prospect would take my mind off — no it wouldn’t. 
And it doesn’t in your case.” 

“ I don’t want to have my mind relieved of Ambrose,” 
said Beryl. “We can do nothing, Christina. We never 
have been able to do anything. Ambrose could appeal, but 
of course, he won’t do anything of the sort. I had a mad 
idea of going to see him. But I don’t think I could endure 
that.” 

Christina shook her head. 

She saw him every day. He never left her ; he was sitting 
there now with his hands folded, silent, thoughtful. She 
avoided saying anything that would hurt him. In moments 


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when Evie annoyed her, as she did lately, the thought that 
Ambrose would not approve, cut short her tart retort. She 
confessed this much and Beryl agreed. She felt the same 
way. 

Beryl had had another bed put in her own room and they 
talked far into the night. There was nothing that Ambrose 
had ever said which they did not recall. He had said 
surprisingly little. 

“ Did he ever tell you in so many words that he loved 
you. Beryl?” 

Only for a second did Beryl hesitate. “Yes,” she said. 

“You didn’t want to tell me that, did you? You were 
afraid that I should be hurt. I’m not. I love his loving 
you. I don’t grudge you a thought. He ought to love 
somebody humanly. I always think that the one incom- 
pleteness of Christ was his austerity. That doesn’t sound 
blasphemous or irreverent, does it? But he missed so much 
experience because he was not a father with a father’s 
feelings. Or a husband with a husband’s love. I suppose 
theological people can explain this satisfactorily. I am 
taking an unlearned view — ” 

Evie was very nervous, thought Christina, when she saw 
her the next afternoon. Usually she was self-possession 
itself. She snapped at the girl when she asked her how she 
had enjoyed the play, although she was penitent immedi- 
ately. 

“ Mother has been going on at me for daring to see a play 
the night poor Ambrose was sentenced,” she said. “ I’m 
sure nobody feels more sorry than I do. You’re different 
to mother. I ought to have known that you weren’t being 
sarcastic.” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


235 


“How is Teddy? I remember him when he was a tiny 
boy. Do you like him, Evie?” 

Evie pursed her red lips. “ He’s not bad,” she granted. 
“ He’s very young and — well, simple.” 

“You worldly old woman!” smiled Christina. “You 
make me feel a hundred!” 

Yes, Evie was nervous. And she took an unusual amount 
of trouble in dressing. 

“Where are you going tonight — all dolled up?” 

Evie was pained. “That is an awfully vulgar expres- 
sion, Chris; it makes me feel like one of those street 
women. I am going to meet a girl friend.” 

“Where are you going, Evie?” Christina quietly insisted. 

“ I am going to see Ronnie, if you want to know. You 
make me tell lies when I don’t want to,” snapped Evie. 
“Why can’t you leave me alone?” 

Christina sighed. “Why don’t I, indeed,” she agreed 
wearily. “What is to be, will be: I can’t be responsible 
for your life, and it is stupid of me to try. Go ahead, Evie, 
and good luck.” 

A remark which considerably mystified Evie Colebrook. 
But, as she told herself, she had quite enough to try her 
without worrying about Christina and her morbid talk. 
The principal cause of her worry was an exasperating 
lapse of memory. In the agitation of the proposal, she 
had forgotten whether Ronnie had asked her to meet him 
in the park at the usual place, or whether she had agreed 
to go straight to the flat. An arrangement had been made 
one way or the other, she was sure. She decided to go to 
the flat. 

Beryl came to the same decision. 


236 


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“Steppe and I are going to Ronnie’s place tonight,” 
said Dr. Merville. “ It will be a sort of — er — board 
meeting as Jan is leaving London tomorrow. I haven’t had 
a chance of asking him about a matter which affects me 
personally. You do not read the financial newspapers, do 
you, Beryl? You haven’t heard from the Fennings, or any 
of the people you know — er — any unpleasant comment?” 

She shook her head again. 

“Jan was asking me again about — you. Beryl. I can’t 
get him to talk about anything else. I think you will have 
to decide one way or the other.” He was pulling on his 
gloves, an operation which gave him an excuse for looking 
elsewhere than at her. “ It struck me that he was growing 
impatient. You are to please yourself — but the suspense 
is rather getting on my nerves.” 

She made no answer until, accompanying him to the 
door, she made a sudden resolve. 

“How long will you be at Ronnie’s?” she asked. 

“An hour, no longer, I think, why?” 

“ I wondered,” she said. 

It was lamentably, wickedly weak in her; a servile sur- 
render to expediency. She knew it, but in her desperation 
she seized the one straw that floated upon the inexorable 
current which was carrying her to physical and moral 
damnation. Ronnie must save her: Ronnie, to whom she 
had best right of appeal. It was a bitter, hateful confession, 
that, despising him, she loved him. She loved the two 
halves of the perfect man. Sault and Ronnie Morelle were 
the very soul and body of love. She loathed herself — yet 
she knew it was the truth. Ronnie must help. He might not 
be so vile as she believed him to be; there might be a spirit 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


237 


in him, a something to which she could reach. The instinct 
of honor, some spark of courage and justice transmitted to 
him by the men and women who bred him. Anything was 
better than Steppe, she told herself wildly, anything! She 
dreamed of him, terrible dreams that revolted her to wake- 
fulness: by day she kept him from her mind. And then 
came night and the unclean dreams that made her very soul 
writhe in an agony of shame, lest, in dreaming, she had 
exposed a foulness which consciously she had seen in her- 
self. 

If Ronnie failed — 

(“Ronnie will fail: you know he will fail,” whispered 
the voice of reason.) 

She could but try. 


XI 


A FOREIGN-LOOKING servant opened the door to Evie 
Colebrook. 

“ Mr. Morelle is out, Mademoiselle, is he expecting 
you?” 

She was in a flutter, ready to fly on the least excuse. 
“Yes — but I will come back again.” 

Frangois opened the door wide. “ If Mademoiselle will 
wait a little — perhaps Mr. Morelle will return very soon.” 

Frangois was an ugly, bullet-headed little man, and his 
name was a war creation. It was in fact “ Otto ”, and he 
was a German Swiss. 

She came timidly into the big room and was impressed 
by the solid luxury of it. She would not sit, preferring to 
walk about, delighted with the opportunity of making so 
leisurely an inspection of a room hallowed by such associ- 
ations. So this was where Ronnie worked so hard. She 
laid her hand affectionately upon the big black table. 
Frangois watched her a little sadly. He had a sister of her 
age and, in his eyes at least, as pretty. Moreover, Frangois 
had grown tired of his employer. Men servants were in 
demand and he would have no difficulty in finding another 
job. . Except for this: Ronald paid extraordinarily good 
wages. 

He saw her pick up a framed photograph. “ This is Mr. 
Morelle’s portrait, isn’t it? I don’t like it.” 

238 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


239 


Evie felt on terms with the man. It seemed natural that 
she should. She had wondered if Francois would be at 
Palermo, too. 

“ Yes, Mademoiselle, that is his portrait.” 

Evie frowned critically at the picture. “ It is not half 
good looking enough.” 

“That is possible. Mademoiselle,” said Frangois, without 
enthusiasm. 

He had never done such a thing before. He marveled at 
his own temerity, even now. 

“Mademoiselle, you will not be angry if I say some- 
things?” he asked, and as he grew more and more agitated, 
his English took a quainter turn. 

Evie opened her eyes in astonishment. “ No, of course 
not.*’ 

“And you must promise not to tell Mr. Morelle.” 

“ It depends,” hesitated the girl, and then, “ I promise.” 

“Mademoiselle,” said Frangois a little huskily, “I have 
a little sister so big as you in Switzerland. Her name is 
Freda, and. Mademoiselle, when I see you here, I think of 
her, and I say, I will speak to this good young lady. 
Mademoiselle, I do not like to see you here!” He said this 
dramatically. 

Evie went crimson. “ I don’t know what you mean.” 

“ I have make you cross,” said Frangois, in an agony of 
self-reproach. “You think I am silly, but I speak with a 
good heart.” 

There was only one way out of this awkward conversa- 
tion. Evie became easily confidential. She spoke as a 
woman of the world to a man of the world. 

“ Of course you did,” she said. “ I appreciate what you 


24 ^ 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


say, Frangois. If I saw a girl — well — compromising her- 
self, I mean a girl who hadn’t my experience of the world. 
I’d say the same as you, but — ” 

A knock at the outer door interrupted her. Frangois 
shot an imploring glance in her direction, and she nodded. 

“There you are, Ronnie — didn’t you say I was to come 
straight here?” 

“ Hello, Evie,” he seemed a little annoyed. “ I told you 
I would meet you at the Statue.” 

Evie was abashed. “ Oh, I am sorry,” she began, but he 
went on. 

“Any letters, Frangois?” 

“ Yes, M’sieur, on the desk.” 

“All right, clear out.” 

But Frangois lingered. “M’sieur.” 

“Well?” asked Ronnie, turning with a scowl. 

Frangois was ill at ease. 

“Tomorrow my brother is coming from Interlaken, may 
I have an evening for myself, M’sieur?” 

Ronald was angry for many reasons: he was not in the 
mood to grant favors. 

“ You have Sundays and you have your holidays. That’s 
enough,” he said. 

Frangois went out crestfallen. 

“ I suppose you think I’m unkind,” said Ronnie with a 
laugh, as he helped take off her coat. “But if you give 
that sort of people an inch, they’ll take the earth.” 

He dropped his hands upon her shoulders and looked 
into her eyes. 

“It is lovely to have you here. You’re two hours too 


soon — 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


241 


“Am I?” she asked in alarm. “ I was so upset last night 
that I don’t know what you said.” 

“I said ten o’clock, but it doesn’t matter. Only Frangois 
would have been gone by then. How lovely you are, Evie! 
How slim and straight and desirable!” 

Suddenly she was in his arms, his face against hers. She 
struggled, pushing him away, escaping at last, too breath- 
less for speech. 

“ You smother me,” she gasped. “ Don’t kiss me like 
that, Ronnie. Let’s talk. You know I oughtn’t to be here,” 
she urged. “ But I did so want to see your beautiful house.” 

He did not take his eyes from her. “You are going to 
do what I asked you?” 

She nodded, shook her head, her heart going furiously. 
“ I don’t know — Ronald, I do love you, but I’m so — so 
frightened.” 

He drew her down to him and she sat demurely on the 
edge of the deep lounge chair he occupied. 

“And I’ll take you to — where shall I take you?” he 
bantered. 

“ Somewhere in Italy, you said.” 

“Palermo! Glorious Palermo — darling, think of what 
it will be, just you and I. No more snatched meetings and 
disagreeable sisters, eh?” 

Evie was thinking: he did not break in upon her thoughts. 
She was good to see. More attractive in her silence, for she 
had the slightest of cockney twangs. 

“I wish Christina could come,” she said at last; a note 
of defiance was in her tone. “A change like that would 
be splendid for her, and I’ve always planned to give her 


242 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“Christina? Good lord! Come with us? You mad 
little thing, Pm not running a sanatorium.” 

He laughed, leaning back in the chair to look up at her. 

“ Ronnie, I know it is awful nerve on my part — but if 
you love me — ” 

He expected this. The philosophies he imparted seldom 
survived the acid test which opportunity applied. 

“ I suppose,” she went on nervously, “ it would be too 
much of a come-down to think of — of marrying me?” 

“ Marriage I ” His voice was reproving, his manner that 
of a man grievously hurt. 

“You know what I think — what we both think about 
marriage, Evie?” 

“ It is — it is respectable anyway.” 

“Respectable!” he scoffed. “Who respects you? Who 
thinks any worse of you if you aren’t married? People 
respect you for your independence. Marriage! It is a 
form of bondage invented by professional Christians who 
make a jolly good living out of it.” 

“Well, religion is something. And the Bible — ” 

Ronnie jumped up. 

“We’ll try the luck, Evie!” He went to a shelf and 
took down a book. 

Evie was a dubious spectator. The fallibility of the 
method seemed open to question when such enormous issues 
were at stake. Yet she accepted a trifle reluctantly, the 
little sword he handed to her, and thrust it between the 
pages of the closed book. 

She opened it at the passage the sword had found. 

“ ‘ Woe unto you — ’ ” she began, but he snatched the 
book from her hands. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


243 


“No, silly,” he said, and read glibly. “‘There is no 
fear in love: perfect love casteth out fear!’” 

Evie was skeptical. 

“You made it up!” she accused. “I mean, you only 
pretended it was there. I know that passage. I learned 
it at school — it is in John.” 

He chuckled, delighted at her astuteness. “You little 
bishop,” he said, and kissed her. “Now sit and amuse 
yourself. I want to speak to Frangois.” 

He was on his way to the pantry to dismiss Frangois 
to his home when the bell sounded. He stopped Frangois 
with a gesture. 


XII 

“ Don’t open the door for a minute,” he said in a low 
voice. “Evie, will you come tomorrow night — no not 
tomorrow. Today is Monday, come on Friday.” 

“Yes, dear.” She was glad to escape. 

“Through there,” he pointed. “Frangois, let mademoi- 
selle out by the pantry door after you have answered the 
bell.” 

Who was the visitor? People did not call upon him 
except by invitation — except Steppe. And Jan Steppe 
came slowly and suspiciously into the hall. Ronnie scarcely 
noticed the doctor who followed him. 

“Why were you keeping me waiting?” he growled. 

“Frangois could not have heard the bell,” answered 
Ronnie easily. 

“That’s a lie.” He looked round the room and sniffed. 
“You had a woman here, as usual, I suppose?” 

Ronnie looked injured. 

“ M’m. Some shop girl,” insisted the big man. “ One of 
your pickups, huh?” 

“ I tell you I have been alone all the evening,” said 
Ronnie, resigned. “Frangois, isn’t that so?” 

Jan Steppe saved the servant from needless perjury. 

“ He’s as big a liar as you are. You’ll burn your fingers 

244 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


245 


one of these days.” He had a deep, harsh laugh, entirely 
without merriment. “You had a little trouble about one 
last year, didn’t you?” 

Merville, impatient and fretful, broke in. “Let him 
alone, Steppe. I want to get this business over.” 

Steppe stared at him. “ Oh, you want to get it over, do 
you? We’ll hurry things up for you, doctor!” 

Ronnie was interested. He had never heard Steppe speak 
to Merville in that tone. There had been a marked change 
in Jan’s attitude, even in the past few days. However, 
Ronnie was chiefly concerned in considering all the possible 
reasons for this call. The doctor explained and Ronnie 
breathed again. 

“We’ll sit here,” said Steppe. 

He sat down in Ronnie’s library chair and taking a 
bundle of documents from his inside pocket, he threw them 
on the table. 

“Here are the papers you want, Merville — and by the 
way!” He turned in his chair and glowered at Ronnie. 
“ Do you remember we pooled the Midwell Traction shares, 
Morelle?” His voice was ominous. 

“Er — yes — of course,” said Ronnie, quaking. 

“We undertook to hold the stock until we mutually 
agreed as to the moment we should unload, huh?” Steppe 
demanded deliberately. 

Ronald made an ineffectual attempt to appear uncon- 
cerned. 

“And we undertook not to part with a share until the 
stock reached forty-three. Do you remember, huh?” 

“ Yes,” said Ronnie, and the big man’s fist crashed down 
on the table. 


246 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“You’re sure you remember?” he shouted. “You sold 
at thirty-five. Do that again, and d’ye know what I’ll do?” 

“I’m sure Ronald wouldn’t — ” began Merville, but was 
silenced. 

“You shut up! It didn’t matter so much that Traction 
slumped. But you broke faith with me, you rat!” 

“ Don’t lose your temper, Steppe,” said the other sulkily, 
“it was a mistake, I tell you. My broker sold without 
authority.” 

“Whilst we are on the subject of the Traction shares, 
I want to ask about the statement I filed in regard to the 
assets of the company. Was it right?” For a week the 
doctor had been trying to put this question. “ Of we three, 
I’m the only director — you’re not in it and Ronnie isn’t 
in it, if there is anything wrong, I should be the goat?” 

Steppe’s voice was milder. Here was a topic to be 
avoided. 

“Huh! You’re all right. What are you frightened 
about?” 

“I’m not frightened, but you had the draft?” 

“ It is in the safe,” said Steppe with some satisfaction. 

“Steppe, how do we stand there?” asked the doctor 
urgently. “ I know Moropulos was doing work for you of 
a sort. What was his position and Sault’s? Is that the 
safe which Sault made? He told me about it some time 
ago.” 

Steppe turned his head again in Ronald’s direction. 

“You went to the trial! You saw him! You’ve seen 
him before — what do you think of him — clever, huh?” 

“Well, I don’t know—” 

“ Of course he’s clever, you fool,” said the other con- 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


247 


temptuously. “ If you had his brains and his principles, 
you’d be a big man. Remember that — a big man.” 

“ I am attending the execution,” said Ronnie, “ the under 
sheriff is admitting three press reporters, and I am to be 
one of them.” 

Steppe eyed him gloomily, groping after the mind of 
the man who could fear him, yet did not fear to see a man 
done to death. 

“ I’ll tell you men all about Moropulos and Sault because 
you’re all tarred with my brush. This is the big pull of 
Sault. A pull he’s never used. Moropulos and I had 
business together. He was on one side of a wall called 
‘Law’, huh? I was on the other. The comfortable side. 
And he used to hand things over. That put me a bit on 
his side. There were letters and certain other documents 
which we had to keep, yet were dangerous to keep. But 
you might always want ’em. I was scared over some shares 
that — well, I oughtn’t have had them. And that’s how 
Sault came to make the ‘ Destroying Angel ’, that’s a good 
name! I christened it. There was a combination lock, the 
word being known only to Moropulos, Sault and myself. 
If you used the wrong combination — any combination but 
the right one, the acids are released and the contents of the 
safe destroyed. If you try to cut through the sides — the 
water runs out, down drops a plunger with the same result. 
When Moropulos was killed I tried to get at it, but the 
police were there before me. There was a typewritten note 
pasted on the top of the safe, telling exactly what would 
happen if they monkeyed with it. They haven’t dared to 
touch it. It’s in the Black Museum today with enough stuff 
inside to send me — well, a hell of a long way.” 


248 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“Suppose this man tells?” asked Merville fearfully. 

“ He won’t tell. That kind of man doesn’t squeal. If it 
had been Ronald Morelle, I’d have been on my way to 
South America by now. A word from Sault and I’m — ” 
he snapped his fingers, “ but do you think it worries me? 
I can sleep and go about my work without a second’s fear. 
That’s the kind of man I am. No nerves — look at my 
hand.” He thrust out his heavy paw stiffly. “ Steady as 
a rock, huh? Good boy, Sault!” 

“ I met him once — ” began Ronnie. 

“I’ve met him more than once,” said the grim Steppe. 
“A man with strange compelling eyes, the only fellow 
that ever frightened me!” He looked at Ronald curiously. 
“ It is unbelievable that a white-livered devil like you can 
see him die. It would make me sick. And yet you, whose 
nerves ought to be rags considering the filthy life you live, 
can stand calmly by — ugh! I don’t know how you can 
do it! To see a man’s soul go out!” 

Ronnie laughed quickly. “ Sault’s rather keen on his 
soul. Boyle, the governor, says he recited Henley’s poem 
on his way to the cells.” 

But Steppe did not laugh. “Soul? H’m. He made me 
believe in something — soul or spirit or — something. He 
dominated me. Do you believe in the soul, Merville?” 

“Yes, I do. A transient x that only abides in the body 
at the will of its host.” 

Ronnie groaned wearily. “Oh, God, are you going to 
lecture?” he asked and Jan Steppe roared at him. 

“ Shut up ! Go on, Merville. Do you mean that it leaves 
the body before — death?” 

“ I think so,” said Merville thoughtfully. “ I’ve often 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


249 


stood by the side of a patient desperately sick, and suddenly 
felt in my body his despair and weakness, and seen him 
brighten and flush with my strength.” 

“Really?” Steppe’s voice was intense. “Do you mean 
that your spirits have exchanged themselves?” 

Dr. Merville flicked the ash of his cigar into the fire- 
place. “ Call it ‘ spirit ’, ‘ soul ‘ X anything you like 
— call it individuality. There has been a momentary 
exchange.” 

“How do you explain it?” 

“ Science doesn’t explain everything,” said Merville. 
“ Science accepts a whole lot of what we call ‘ incommen- 
surables’.” 

“ H’m,” Steppe pushed away the papers and rose. “ H’m. 
That’ll do for the night. Keep those papers, you fellows, 
and digest them. You going out, Morelle?” 

“No, would you like me to go anywhere with you?” 
Ronnie was eager to serve. 

“ No,” shortly. “ Merville, I’m dining with you tomor- 
row. And I hope Beryl won’t have a headache this time. 
I’ve got a box at the Pantheon.” 

The doctor was obviously embarrassed. 

“She — well, she isn’t very bright just now.” 

“Let her be bright enough to come to dinner tomorrow 
night,” said Steppe. 

The door banged and Ronnie drew a deep breath. 

“Thank God,” he said piously. 


XIII 


Francois went after them, not unhappy to detach him- 
self from a tense and threatening atmosphere, his resent- 
ment against his employer somewhat modified when he 
reached home, by a letter from his visiting brother announc- 
ing the postponement of his departure from Switzerland. 

Therefore it was Ronnie who answered the sharp ring 
of the bell. When he saw the girl his jaw dropped. 

“Really, Beryl! You place me in a most awkward 
position. Whatever made you come? Steppe was here — 
suppose he came back? Why didn’t you bring somebody 
with you?” 

He was flustered and scared. Steppe might return at 
any moment. 

“ I’m sorry I have outraged the proprieties,” said Beryl 
with a little smile. “ Did that child from the druggist’s 
have a chaperon?” 

“Eh?” Ronnie was startled. 

“ I saw her come in and I saw her go out. I’ve been 
waiting for an opportunity of seeing you. She’s pretty, 
but, oh, Ronald, she’s only a baby!” 

Ronnie made a quick recovery from his surprise. If 
she had seen Evie, she had also seen Steppe and must be 
sure that he had gone. She would probably know from 
her father what were their plans for the night. 

“ I give you my word of honor. Beryl,” said he earnestly, 
“ that she merely came to see me about her sister — you 
250 


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251 


know her, Christina, I think she is called. Evie is very 
anxious that I should help send her abroad. As far 
as Evie is concerned, you can put your mind at rest. I 
give you my solemn word of honor that I have never as 
much as held her hand.” 

She knew he was lying, but tonight of all nights she 
must accept his word. She was in a fever: it was almost 
painful to hold fast to the last shreds of her failing 
reserve. 

“Ronald.” Her voice was tremulous and he braced him- 
self for a scene. “ You don’t want me to marry Steppe?” 

So that was it. And he had thought she had accepted 
the position so admirably. 

“Ronald, you know it would be — death to me — worse 
than death to me. Can’t you — can’t you use your 
imagination?” 

Her eyes avoided his: that alone helped to restore a 
little of his poise. She had come as a suppliant, and 
would not be difiScult to handle. The old Beryl, polished, 
cynical mistress of herself and her emotions, might have 
beaten him down; induced God knows what, extravagant 
promises. 

“ I don’t want to talk about what has happened. I am 
not reproaching you or appealing to any sense of duty 
hut—” 

She stood there, her eyes downcast, twisting her gloves 
into tight spirals. He said nothing, holding his arguments 
in reserve against her exhaustion. 

“ You make it hard, awfully hard for me, Ronnie. You 
do know — Steppe wants to marry me?” 

He nodded. 


252 


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“Do you realize what that means — to me, Ronnie?” 

“He’s not a bad fellow,” protested Ronnie. “Really, 
Beryl, I never dreamed you were going to take this line. 
Is it decent?” 

“He’s — he’s awful, Ronnie, you know he’s awful. He’s 
hideous, he’s just animal all through. Animal with rea- 
soning powers, gross — horrible. You liked me, Ronnie,” 
she was pleading now. “Why — why don’t you marry 
me? I love you — I must have loved you. I could learn 
to respect you so easily. They say you’re rotten, but 
you’re of my own kind. Ronnie, don’t you know what it 
means to me to say this — don’t you know?” 

She was gripping his arm with an intensity which made 
him wince. Hysteria — suppose Steppe did come back? 
He went moist at the thought. 

“Ronnie, why don’t you?” she breathed. “It would 
save me. It would save father, too. He would accept 
the accomplished fact, and be relieved. Ronnie, it would 
save my soul and my body. I’d serve you as faithfully as 
any woman ever served a man, I would Ronnie. I’d be — I’d 
be as light as the lightest woman you know — don’t you 
realize what I am saying — ?” 

“ My dear girl,” he said, thoroughly alarmed, “ I 
couldn’t oppose Steppe, he’s a good fellow, really he is. 
I’m sure you’d be happy. I’m awfully fond of you — ” 

“Then take me away! I’ll go with you tonight — now, 
now! Take me. Ronnie, I’ll go — now — this very minute 
and I’ll bless you. He wouldn’t wemt me then. I know 
him.” 

“I — I wish you wouldn’t talk such rot,” he quavered. 

“Take me,” she urged desperately. “There is a train 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


253 


tonight for Ostende, take me. Take me, Ronald, I could 
love you — I could love you in gratitude — save me from 
this gross man.” 

Ronnie, in a flurry of fear, pushed her away. “You 
don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said shrilly. 
“ Steppe would kill me. Beryl, I’m fond of you, but I 
can’t cross Steppe.” 

That was the end, her last throw in the game. Ronnie 
was Ronnie. That was all. She was very calm now; but 
for her pallor and the uncontrollable tremor of her hands, 
her old self. 

That she had humiliated herself did not bring her a 
moment’s regret. Stampeded — she had been stampeded 
by sheer physical fear. 

“ I think I’ll go,” she said, taking up her furs. “ You 
need not get me a cab — this time. And iMoropulos 
cannot photograph me. I might have forced you to do 
what I wished, playing on your fears. I couldn’t do 
that. What a coward — but I won’t reproach you, Ronnie.” 

She held out her hand and he held it reluctantly. This 
time he took no risks. He gave her a minute’s start and 
then he, too, went out. Madame Ritti was ever a place 
of refuge to Ronnie when his nerves were jangled. 


XIV 


How quickly the days flew past! Beryl had a letter 
from Sir John Maxton one Saturday: 

“ I have seen our friend for the third time since the 
sentence; you know that on Tuesday he ‘ goes the way ’ — 
those are his own words. What can I tell you of him. 
Beryl, that you do not know? He has become one of 
my dearest friends. How strange that seems, written! 
Yet it is true and when he asked me if I would come and 
see him on the morning, I agreed. In France it is the 
custom of the defending advocate to be present — I am 
glad it is not necessary in England. Yet I shall go and 
I pray that I may be as fearless as he. 

“ He spoke of you yesterday and of ‘ Christina ’ — 
that is Miss Colebrook, isn’t it? But so cheerfully! 

“The officers of the prison are fond of him and 
even the chief warder, a hard-bitten Guardsman, who 
was the principal flogger at Pentonville for many years, 
speaks of him affectionately. Completely untroubled — 
that is how I should describe Ambrose. He has been 
allowed the privilege of a reader, one of the warders, an 
educated man who acts as librarian to the prison. He 
has chosen Gibbon’s ‘ Roman Empire ’ and on my sug- 
gestion, he is concentrating on the chapters dealing 
with the creation of the Byzantine Empire. The story of 
Belesarius fascinates him; Belesarius is a character 
after his own heart, as I knew would be the case. The 
chaplain sees him frequently and Ambrose is politely 
attentive. It is rather like a village schoolmaster in- 
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255 


structing Newton in astronomy. Ambrose is so far 
advanced that the good man’s efforts to bring him to an 
understanding are just a little pathetic. ‘ I can’t under- 
stand Mr. Finley’s God,’ he said to me when I called 
immediately after the clergyman’s visit. ‘ He is a slave’s 
conception of a super-master — the superstition of a 
fighting tribe.’ Ambrose holds to his own faith, which 
is comprehended in Henley’s poem ‘ Out of the dark 
which covers me.’ He recites this continuously. 

“ I said that he spoke of you and Christina. I 
asked him if he would like to see you both, knowing that 
if he did you would face the ordeal. But he said that it 
was unnecessary.” 

On the Monday evening Christina came to the house. 
They did not sleep that night. 

“ I suppose we’re neurotic, but I never felt saner,” 
said Beryl, “ or more peacefully minded. And yet if it 
were somebody I did not know, some servant with whom 
I was just on nodding terms, I should be a bundle of 
nerves. And it is Ambrose! Christina, are we just keyed 
up, over-strained — shall we collapse? I have wondered.” 

“ I shall not break,” said Christina, “ I have been worry- 
ing about you — ” 

Yet it was Christina on whom the chimes of the little 
French clock on the mantelpiece fell like the knell of 
doom. 

“ — six — seven — -eight — nine!” counted Beryl, tense, 
exalted. 

It was over. Ambrose Sault had gone the way. 
“Goodbye, Ambrose!” 

Christina’s voice was a wail. Before Beryl could reach 
her, she had slipped to the floor in a dead faint. 


XV 


Ronald Morelle came down the carpeted stairs of the 
House of Shame, and there was a half smile on his lips, 
as though the echoes of laughter were still vibrating 
through this silent mansion and he must respond. 

The hall was in darkness except for the light admitted 
by a semi-circular transom. Turning his head, he saw 
that the door of the salon was ajar, and he hesitated. 
He had never seen the salon by daylight, only at night, 
when the soft lights were burning and silver chandeliers 
glowed with tiny yellow globes. 

He pushed open the door. The darkness here had been 
relieved by somebody who had opened one window and 
unshuttered two others. The room was in disorder, chairs 
remained where the sitters had left them, and the cold 
gray light of morning looked upon tarnished gilding and 
faded damask, and the tawdry litter of the night before. 
Merciless, pitiless, contemptuous was the sneer of the 
clean dawn. 

Ronald’s smile deepened. And then he caught a reflec- 
tion of himself in one of the long mirrors. He looked 
pale and drawn. He shivered. Not because the mirror 
gave back the illusion of a sick man — he knew well 
enough he was healthy — but because he glimpsed the 
something in his eyes, the leering devil that sat behind 
the levers and turned the switches of desire. 

A car was waiting for him at the end of the slumbering 

256 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


257 


street. Madame did not like cars at the door in the early 
hours of the morning, and he stepped in, wrapping his 
coat about him. 

The sun had not yet risen and Wechester was a two hours 
run with a clear road. 

Sault was in Wechester Gaol awaiting the dread hour, 
and from somewhere in Lancashire, a gaunt-faced barber 
who had marked in his diary the date of an engagement, 
had taken train to Ronald’s destination, carrying with him 
the supple straps that would bind the wrists of the living 
and be slipped from the wrists of the dead. 

The clear sky gave promise of a perfect winter day, 
but the morning air was cold. He pulled up the windows 
of the car and wished he had bought a newspaper or book 
to wile away the time. In two hours the soul of Ambrose 
Sault — 

The soul! What was the soul? Was it Driesh’s “En- 
telechy;” that “ innnermost secret” of animation? Was 
there substance to the soul? Was it material? A flame, 
Merville had once called it, a flame from a common fire. 
Could the flame leap at will from a man’s body and 
leave him — what? A lunatic, a madman, a beast without 
reason? Ronald shrugged away the speculation, but the 
scholar in him was uneasy and insensibly he came back to 
the problem. 

The promise of fair weather was belied as the car drew 
nearer to Wechester. A mist, thin and white, lay like a 
blanket on the streets, and Ronald’s car “ hawked ” its 
way into the still thicker mist which lay on Wechester 
Common. The car drew up at the prison gates, and he 
looked at his watch. It wanted a quarter of nine. 


258 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


Ronnie saw a thin man, thinly clad, walking up and 
down outside. His hair was long and fell over his coat 
collar, his nose was red with the cold, and now and again 
he stopped to> stamp his feet. Ronnie wondered who he 
was. 

A wicket opened at his ring, and he showed his authority 
through the bars before, with a clang and a clatter of 
turning locks and the thud of many bolts, the door swung 
open and he found himself in a square stone room fur- 
nished with a desk, a high stool and one chair. 

The warder took his authority and read it, made an 
entry in the book, and rang a bell. It was a cheerless 
room, in spite of the fire, thought Ronald. Three sets 
of handcuffs garlanded above the chimney piece; a sug- 
gestive truncheon lay on brackets near the warder’s desk, 
and within reach of his hand, and a framed copy of 
Prison Regulations only served to emphasize the bareness 
of the remaining wall. 

Again the clatter and click of the lock and another 
warder came in. 

“Take this gentleman to the governor’s room,” said the 
doorkeeper. 

Ronald was amused because the second warder put his 
hand on his arm as though he were a prisoner, and did 
not remove his hand even when he was unlocking the 
innumerable gates, doors and grilles which stood between 
liberty and the prisoners. 

The governor’s room was scarcely more cheerful than 
the gatekeeper’s lodge. There was a desk piled with 
papers, a worn leather armchair and an office smell which 
was agreeable and human. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


259 


The governor shook hands with the visitor, whom he had 
met before, and Ronald nodded to the two other pressmen 
who were waiting. 

Then they took him out into the yard. 

The warder led the way, and the doctor followed, then 
came the governor and last, save for the warder who 
brought up the rear, went Ronald Morelle, without a single 
tremor of heart, to the house of doom. 

To a great glass-roofed hall with tier upon tier of 
galleries and yellow cell doors, and near at hand (that 
which was nearest to them as they came in) one cell, door 
ajar. Outside three blankets neatly folded were stacked 
one on each other. They were the blankets in which the 
condemned man had slept. 

Here was a wait. A nerve-racking wait to those with 
nerves. Ronald had none. A small door opened into the 
yard and he strolled through it and found himself in a 
small black courtyard. Twenty paces away was a little 
building which looked like a tool house. There were two 
gray-black sliding doors and these were open. All he could 
see was a plain clean interior with a scrubbed floor, and 
a yellow rope that hung from somewhere in the roof. He 
was joined by an ofl&cer whom he took to be the chief 
warder. 

Physically Ronald was a coward. He admitted as much 
to himself. He feared pain, he shrank from danger. In 
his questionable business transactions he guarded himself 
in every way from unpleasant consequences, employing two 
lawyers who checked one another’s conclusions. 

Yet he could watch the pain of others and never turn 
a hair. He had witnessed capital operations and had found 


260 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


stimulus in the experience which the hospital theatre brings 
to the enthusiastic scientist. He had seen death adminis- 
tered by the law in England, America and France. Once 
he stood by the side of a guillotine in a little northern 
town of France and watched three shrieking men dragged 
to “ the widow ” and was the least affected of the spectators, 
until the blood of one splashed his hand. And then it 
was only disgust he felt. He himself was incapable of 
violent action. He might torture the helpless, but he 
would have to be sure they were helpless. 

“ Chilly this morning, sir,” said the chief warder conver- 
sationally, and said that he did not know what was happen- 
ing to the weather nowadays. “ Is this the first time you’ve 
been inside?” 

“In a prison? Oh lord, no,” said Ronnie. 

“Ah!” The warder jerked his head toward the door. 
“On this kind of job?” 

“Yes, twice before.” 

The officer looked glum. 

“Not very pleasant. It upsets all the routine of the 
establishment. Can’t get the men out for exercise till 
after it is over. They sit in their cells and brood — we 
always have a lot of trouble afterwards.” 

“How is he going to take it?” asked Ronald. 

“Who, the prisoner?” Mr. Marsden smiled. “Oh, he’s 
going to take it all right. They never give any trouble — 
and he — he’ll go laughing, you mark my words. We 
like him, here — that’s a funny thing to say, isn’t it? But 
I assure you. I’ve had to take three men off observation 
duty — they are the warders who sit in the cell with him 
— they got so upset. It is a fact. Old fellows who’d 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


261 


been in the prison service for years. Here’s the deputy.” 

A tall man in a trench coat had come through the grille. 

“Good morning, Morelle, have you seen the governor?” 

Ronnie nodded. 

“He won’t be here for the — er — event,” said Major 
Boyle. “Between ourselves, he said he couldn’t stand it. 
An extraordinary thing. Have you seen Sir John Maxton?” 

“No, is he here?” asked Ronnie interested. 

“ He’s in the cell with the man — there he is.” 

Sir John’s face was gray: he seemed to have shrunken. 
He had not expected to see Ronnie, but he made no com- 
ment on his presence. 

“ Good morning, Boyle. Good morning, Ronnie. I 
have just said goodbye to him.” 

“Aren’t you staying?” 

“No — he understands,” said Sir John briefly. Then he 
seemed to be conscious of Ronnie’s presence. The deputy 
had gone back to the hall. 

“ Ronnie, how could you come here this morning — and 
meet the eyes of this man so soon to face God?” he asked 
in a hushed voice. 

Ronnie’s lips curled. 

“I suppose you feel in your heart that it is a great 
injustice, that your noble-minded murderer should go to 
a shameful death, whilst a leprous but respectable member 
of society like myself walks free through that gate!” 

“ I would wish no man this morning’s agony,” said the 
other. 

“Suppose you were God — ” 

“Ronnie, have you no decency!” 

“Oh, yes — but suppose you were: would you transfer 


262 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


the soul and the individuality of us two, Ambrose Sault 
and Ronnie Morelle?” 

“ God forgive me, I would, for you are altogether 
beastly!” 

Ronnie laughed again. 

There was the sound of a slamming door and a man 
came into the yard, squat, unshaven, a little nervous. A 
derby hat was on the back of his head, and in his hands, 
clasped behind him, was a leathern strap. 

“There’s the hangman,” said Ronnie. “Ask him what 
he thinks of murderers’ souls! What is death, Sir John? 
Look at those tablets on the wall — just a few initials. 
Yet they sleep as soundly as the great in the Abbey under 
their splendid monuments. Though they were hanged by 
the neck until they were dead. You would like God to 
change us. One of those changes which Merville talked 
about the other night — it was a pity you weren’t there.” 

Sir John said nothing: he walked to the grille and a 
warder unlocked the steel door. For a second he stood 
and then, as the hangman went into the hall, he passed 
out through the opened gate. 

Presently two warders came from the hall and then 
another two, walking solemnly in slow step, and then a 
bound man; a great rugged figure who overshadowed the 
clergyman by his side. The drone of the burial service 
came to Ronald Morelle and he took off his hat. 

Sault was reciting something. His powerful voice 
drowned the thin voice of the minister: 

“ It matters not how straight the Gate — ” 

He paced in time to the metre. 

“How charged with punishment the scroll. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


263 


“I am the master of my fate — ” 

Nearer, and yet nearer, and then their eyes met! 

The debonair worldling, silk hat in hand, his hair 
brushed and pomaded, his immaculate cravat set fault- 
lessly — and the other! That big gray-faced man with 
the mane of hair, his rough clothes and his collarless 
shirt! 

They looked at one another for a fraction of a second, 
eye to eye, and Ronald felt something was drawing at him, 
tugging at his very heart strings. The eyes of the man were 
luminous, appealing, terrible. And then with a crash the 
world stood still — all animate creation was frozen stiff, 
petrified, motionless, and Ronald swayed for a moment. 

Then a firm hand on his arm pushed him forward. He 
stepped forth mechanically. He had a curious, almost 
painful feeling of restriction. And then he realized, with 
a half-sob, that his hands were bound behind him, strapped 
so tightly that they were swollen and tingling, and warders 
were holding his arms. He tried to speak, but no sound 
came, and looking up he saw — ! 

Once more he was looking into eyes, but they were the 
eyes of himself! Ronald Morelle was standing watching 
him with sorrow and pity. Ronald Morelle was watching 
himself! And then again the urgent hand pressed him 
forward and he paced mechanically. 

“ 1 know that my Redeemer liveth ” 

The little clergyman was walking by his side, reading 
tremulously. Ronald looked down at himself, his shoe 
was hurting him, somebody had left a nail there and he 
cursed Francois: but those were not his shoes he was 
looking at, they were great rough boots and his trousers 


264 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


were old and frayed and there was a shiny patch on his 
knee. 

“ — Man that is born of a woman hath but little time 
upon this earth, and that time is filled with misery — ” 

He walked like one in a dream into the shed and felt the 
trap sag under him. The executioner — it must be the 
executioner, he thought, stooped and strapped his legs 
tightly. Ronald wondered what would happen. It was an 
absurd mistake, of course, rather amusing in a way — 
Frangois had not been paid his month’s salary, and 
Frangois was meeting his brother today from Interlaken, 
Interlaken in the Oberland. 

The man put a cloth over his face — it was linen, 
unbleached and pungent. When the executioner passed 
the elastic loops behind his ears, he released one too 
quickly and it stung. 

“ It is not me, it is not me,” said Ronald numbly, “ it is 
the body of Ambrose Sault — the gross body of Ambrose 
Sault! I’m standing outside watching! It is Sault who is 
being hanged — Sault! I am Morelle — Morelle of Balliol 
— Major Boyle,” he screamed aloud. “Major Boyle — 
you know me — I am Morelle — ” 

Yet his body was huge — he felt its grossness, its size, 
the strength of the corded muscles of the arm; the roaring 
fury of the life which surged within him. He heard^ a 
squeak — the lever was being pulled — 

With a crash the trap gave way and the body of 
Ambrose Sault swung for a second and was dead, but 
it was the soul of Ronald Morelle that went forth to the 
eternal spaces of infinity. 

The prison clock struck nine. 


BOOK THE FOURTH 


I 

A WARDER came round the edge of the pit with his 
arms extended as the executioner, reaching out his hand, 
steadied the quivering rope. The prison doctor looked 
down the pit. 

“ He’s all right,” he said vaguely. 

The tremulous clergyman was the last to go; backing out 
of the death chamber he watched the warders close and 
lock the doors. 

The body of Ronald Morelle settled its top hat firmly 
on its shapely head and looked down at the little parson. 
There were tears in that good man’s eyes. 

“ He was not bad, he was not bad,” he murmured shakily. 
“ I wish he had repented the murder.” 

“There was nothing to repent,” said Ronald quietly, 
“ if repentance were possible, the murder was unnecessary.” 

His voice was strangely deep and rich. Hearing himself, 
he wondered. 

The minister looked up at him in surprise. 

“He said exactly the same thing to me this morning,” 
he said, “ and in almost identical words ; the poor fellow 
expressed his thoughts in language which seemed unnatural 
remembering his illiteracy.” 

“Poor soul,” said Ronnie thoughtfully. “Poor lonely, 
lonely soul!” 


265 


266 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


He took the minister’s arm in his and they walked hack 
to the prison hall. There was a surplice to be shed, 
devotional books to be packed in a little black bag. 

The condemned cell was being turned out by two men 
in convict’s garb. One was using a broom, sweeping with 
long, leisurely strokes, and his face had a suggestion of 
sadness. The other was carrying out the remainder of the 
bedding and washing the utensils which the dead man had 
used. All this Ronald noticed with a curiously detached 
interest. 

Shepherded back again to the governor’s office, there 
was a form to be signed, testifying that he had witnessed 
the execution which had been carried out in a proper 
and decorous manner. Ronald took the pen and hesitated 
a second before he signed. The appearance of his signa- 
ture on paper interested him — it was unfamiliar. 

“You’ve seen these executions before, Mr. Morelle?” 
said the under-sheriff. 

“Oh, yes,” said Ronald quietly. “I do not think I 
shall come again. The waste of it, the malice of it!” 

“An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,” said the 
under-sheriff gruffly and Ronald smiled sadly. 

“The Old Testament is excellent as literature but in 
parts diabolical as a code of morals,” he said, and went 
through the porter’s lodge to the world. 

There was a small crowd, some twenty or thirty people 
grouped at a distance from the gate. Their interest was 
concentrated upon the kneeling figure that confronted Ron- 
nie as he walked out of the lodge. 

“ He comes here every time we have a hanging,” said the 
gateman in Ronnie’s ear. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


267 


It was the thin man in the threadbare coat; he knelt 
bareheaded, his blue hands clasped, his voice hoarse with a 
cold. 

“ — let him be the child of Thy mercies — pardon, we 
beseech Thee, 0 Lord our God, this our brother who comes 
before Thy seat of Judgment — ” 

Ronnie listened to the husky voice. Presently and with 
a final supplication, the man got up and dusted his knees. 

“For whom are you praying?” asked Ronnie gently. 

“For Ambrose Sault, brother,” answered the man. 

“For Ambrose Sault?” repeated Ronnie absently “that 
is very sweet.” He looked thoughtfully at the man and 
then walked away. 

Following the Common road that would have taken him 
to Wechester, he heard a car coming behind him and 
presently the glittering bonnet moved past him and stopped. 

“Excuse me, sir.” 

Ronnie looked round. He did not know the chauffeur 
who was touching his cap. And yet he had seen his face. 

“ I thought you may have missed the car — I had to 
park away from the prison.” 

Of course! He breathed a heavy sigh as the problem 
was solved. It was his own car and the chauffeur’s name 
was Parker. 

“I haven’t the slightest idea where I was going,” he 
laughed. “ You look cold, Parker. We had better stop in 
Wechester and get breakfast.” 

Parker could only gape. 

“Yes, sir,” he stammered, “but don’t worry about me, 
sir. I shall be all right.” 

Ronnie was puzzling again. Then he had it. The Red 


268 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


Lion! There was an inn just outside of Wechester; he had 
stopped there before. Apparently Parker expected some 
such directions. 

They left the mists behind them at Wechester and came 
to the Red Lion. 

A pretty girl waitress at the hotel saw Ronnie and tossed 
her head. Her manner was cold. He couldn’t remember. 

That was the oddness of it. He had lost some of his 
memories. They were completely blotted out from his 
mind. Why was this pretty girl so cross? He was to learn. 
Finishing his breakfast he strolled out into the big yard 
where the car was garaged. The chauffeur was at his 
breakfast. 

“Hi! I want to have a talk with you!” 

A man was approaching. He looked like a groom, 
wearing gaiters as he did, and he was in his shirtsleeves. 
Moreover, his style and appearance was hostile. 

“You’re the man who was staying here for the trial!” 
challenged the newcomer. 

“Was I — I suppose so.” 

“Was you!” sneered the groom savagely. “Yes, you 
was! Staying here with a young woman and you went and 
interfered with my young woman. Yes, interfered — said 
things to her.” 

His voice went up the scale until he was shouting. There 
was a stir of feet and men and women came to the doors 
of outhouses and kitchens. 

“Doesn’t it strike you that you are making the young 
lady feel uncomfortable — if she is here,” said Ronnie 
seriously. “You are shouting what should be whispered 
— no, no, Parker, please do not interfere.” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


269 


“ I’ll tell you what does strike me,” bellowed the groom, 
rolling up his sleeves, “that I’m going to give you the 
damnedest lacing you ever had — put ’em up!” 

He lunged forward, but his blow did not get home. 
A hand gripped him by one shoulder and swung him round 

— crash! He fell against a stable door. Happily there 
was a wall for Parker to lean against. He was open- 
mouthed — incredulous. 

Phew! Morelle who was ready to drop from terror at a 
threat, was standing, hands on hips, surveying the bewil- 
dered fire-eater. 

“ I’m extremely sorry you made me do that,” he said 
almost apologetically, “ but you really must not shout — 
especially about unpleasant things. If I — if I behaved 
disgracefully to the lady, I am sorry.” 

All this in a voice that did not reach beyond his adver- 
sary. Parker heard the low music of it and scratched his 
head. Morelle’s voice had changed. 

Later, when Ronnie was preparing to depart, Parker 
ventured to offer felicitations. 

“ I never saw a man go through it like that fellow did 

— and they think something of him as a fighter in these 
parts.” 

“It was nothing,” said Ronnie hastily, “a trick — I 
learned it in New Caledonia from a Japanese who was in 
the same prison.” 

Parker blinked. 

“Yes, sir,” he said, and then Ronnie laughed. 

“What on earth am I talking about? I think we will go 
home, Parker.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Parker, breathing hard. He had never 


270 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


seen his master drunk before, and drunk he undoubtedly 
was, for not only had he fought, but he was civil. Parker 
hoped he would keep drunk. 

In his pocket Ronnie found a gold cigarette case, a pocket- 
book, a watch and chain, a small billcase and a gold 
pencil. In his trousers pocket were a few silver coins and 
some keys. He found them literally; the seat of the car 
was strewn with his discoveries. Whose were they? The 
cigarette case was inscribed: “To Ronnie from Beryl.” 
Ronnie — Beryl? Of corurse they were his own properties. 
He chuckled gleefully at his amusing lapse. 

“No, I shan’t want you again, Parker — how do I get 
into touch with you if — ? Yes, of course, I ’phone you at 
the garage. Good morning.” 

“ Good morning.” Parker was too dazed to return the 
politeness. 

Ronnie shook his head smilingly when the porter opened 
the gate of the automatic elevator. He would walk, he 
said, and went up the stairs two at a time. This exercise 
tired him slightly. And usually he felt so strong, nothing 
tired him. That day he lifted Moropulos and flung him on 
his bed. Moropulos had hated him ever since. 


II 


“ What am I thinking about?” said Ronnie Morelle aloud. 

Francois was not in. Ronnie had expected him to be 
there and yet would have been surprised had he seen 
him. There was a letter lying on the table. Ronnie saw 
it when he entered the room. He did not look at it again 
for some time. Strolling aimlessly round the library, 
hands in pockets, he stopped before the Anthony over 
the mantelpiece — ugly and a little unpleasant. He made 
a little grimace of disgust. Out of the tail of his eye he 
saw the letter. Why did people write to him, he wondered, 
troubled? They knew that he couldn’t read, he made no 
secret of his ignorance. Yet, picking up the envelope, he 
read his own name and was unaware of his inconsistency. 
The letter was from Frangois. His brother had arrived. 
He had gone to the station to meet him and would return 
instantly. Would Monsieur excuse? It was unlikely that 
monsieur would return before him, but if he did, would 
he be pleased to excuse. He wrote “excuse” three times 
and in three different ways, and they were all wrong. 
Ronald laughed softly. Poor Frangois! poor — 

His face became grave and slowly his eyes went back 
to the Anthony, that lewd painting. 

Poor soul ! His eyes filled with tears. They rolled with 
the curious leisure of tears down his face, and dropped on 
the gray suede waistcoat. 


271 


272 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


Poor soul! Poor weak, undeveloped soul! 

Ronnie was sitting on the Chesterfield to read the letter. 
Francois, coming in hurriedly, saw a man crying into the 
crook of his arm and stood petrified. 

“M’sieur!” 

Ronnie looked up. His eyes were swollen, his smooth 
skin blotchily red in patches. 

“ Hello, Frangois. Fm being stupid. Get me a glass of 
water, please.” 

His hand was shaking so that he could hardly hold the 
glass to his chattering teeth. 

Frangois watched and marvelled. 

“Did you meet your brother?” Ronnie was drying his 
eyes and smiling faintly at the valet’s grotesque dismay. 

“Yes, M’sieur, I hope that m’sieur was not inconven- 
ienced — ” 

Ronnie shook his head. 

“No — ^make me something. Coffee or tea — anything 
— have you brought your brother here?” 

“Oh, no, M’sieur.” 

“You will want to see him, Frangois. You may take 
the rest of the day off.” 

“Certainly, M’sieur,” said Frangois, recovering himself. 
His services were seldom dispensed with until later in the 
day. Possibly his employer had excellent reason. 

Ronnie did not hear the bell ring and until he caught 
the click of the lock and the sound of voices in the lobby, 
he had no idea that he had a caller. 

Frangois came in alone, secretive, low-voiced. 

“It is Mister East, M’sieur; Yesterday was the day, but 
m’sieur forgot,” he said mysteriously. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


273 


“Yesterday was — what day?” Ronnie rubbed his chin 
with a knuckle. How stupid of him to forget! 

“Ask him to come in please.” 

Frangois hesitated, but went, returning with a thin young 
man whose face seemed all angles and bosses. He was 
well dressed, a little too well dressed. His plastered hair 
was parted and one fringe curled like a wave of black ink 
that had been petrified just as it was in the act of breaking 
on the yellow beach of his forehead. 

He had a way of holding back his head so that he looked 
down his nose in whatever direction his gaze was turned. 

“Morning,” he said coldly and cleared his throat. 

“Good morning?” Ronnie’s tone was polite but inquis- 
itive. 

“ I called yesterday but nobody was in,” said Mr. East, 
gently stem. 

“Why did you call at all?” asked Ronnie. 

A look of amazement toning to righteous anger from 
Mr. East. 

“Why did I call at all?” he repeated. “To give you 
a chance ©f actin’ the man; to collect what is due to a poor 
girl that was — ” 

“To commit blackmail, in fact?” smiled Ronnie. (He 
was quick to smile today.) 

“Eh?” 

“I remember — I have given you money every week, 
ostensibly for your sister. Tell her to come and see me.” 

“What! Her come to see you? In this, what I might 
term, den of iniquity? No! I don’t allow you to see the 
poor girl. And as for blackmail, didn’t you, of your own 
free will, offer to pay?” 


274 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


Mr. East had grown red in the face, he was indignant, 
hurt, and soon would be pugnacious. 

Ronnie got to his feet and the listening Francois heard 
the door open. 

“ Get out, please,” said Ronnie pleasantly “ I don’t wish 
to hurt you — but get out.” 

The man was speechless. 

“ I am going to a lawyer,” he blustered, “ I won’t soil 
my hands with you.” 

“ I think you are very wise,” said Ronnie and closed 
the door on him. 

On the mat outside, Mr. East stood for at least five 
minutes thinking, or trying to think. 

“He’s been drinking!” he said hollowly, and, had he 
consulted Parker, his suspicions would have received 
support. 

Frangois heard his employer’s summons and came from 
his tiny compartment. 

“ I am going out,” said Ronnie. 

“ I will telephone for the car, M’sieur,” but Ronnie 
shook his head. 

“I will walk,” he said. “You need not wait, Francois. 
Have I a key?” 

“Yes, M’sieur,” wonderingly, “it is on the chain of 
m’sieur.” 

Ronnie pulled a bunch from his pocket. 

“Which is it — this?” 

“ Certainly, M’sieur.” 

“ You need not wait,” said Ronnie again. “ I do not 
know when I shall be in.” 

“Good, M’sieur.” 


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275 


Well might Frangois wonder, for Ronnie was speaking 
in French, the French of a man who had lived with French 
people. And Ronald Morelle, though he had a knowledge 
of that language, never spoke it, or if he did, his accent 
was bad and his vocabulary limited. 

It was eight o’clock at night when Ronnie returned. 
The flat was in darkness and was chilly. He turned on 
the lights before he closed the door and had a difficulty in 
finding the switch. It took him a longer time to locate the 
controls of the electric stove in the fireplace. They were 
skilfully hidden. 

In the kitchenette he lit a gas-ring and filling a copper 
kettle, set the water to boil. 

Frangois, in his hurry to meet his brother that morning, 
had forgotten to dust the black writing table. Ronnie 
found a duster and remedied his man’s neglect. 

By the time he had finished, the kettle was boiling. The 
tea was in a little wooden box; the sugar he found on 
another shelf — there was no milk. Ronnie put on his 
coat and with a jug in his hand, went out to find a dairy. 
The hall porter saw a man in a silk hat and wasp-waisted 
overcoat passing his lodge, and came out hurriedly. 

“ Excuse me, Mr. Morelle. Is there anything I can do 
for you?” 

“ I want some milk,” said Ronnie simply, “ but please 
don’t trouble; there is a dairy in the Brompton Road, I 
remember seeing the place.” 

“ They will be closed now, sir,” said the porter. “ If 
you give me the jug. I’ll get some for you.” 

He took the vessel and made a flat-to-flat canvass and 
was successful in his quest. 


276 


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Wben Ronnie opened the door to the porter, Ronnie was 
in his shirt-sleeves and he had a broom in his hand. He 
explained pleasantly that he had upset a can of flour. 
Frangois occasionally prepared an omelette for his master. 

“ If you’ll let me sweep it up — ” began the porter, but 
Ronnie declined the offer. 

With a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter he 
made a meal, cleared away the remnants of the feast and 
washed and dried the utensils. 

Then he sat down to pass the evening. The book-shelves 
were bewilderingly interesting. He took out a book. Greek! 
Of course, he read Greek and this was the Memorabilia; 
its margins covered with pencil notes in his own hand- 
writing! 

Presently he replaced the book and tried to reduce the 
events of the day to some sort of order. The execution! 

What happened outside the execution shed? 

He had looked into the eyes of the condemned man and 
suddenly the placid current of his mind had been disturbed 
as by a mighty wind. And standing there he had watched 
something being taken into the death house; whose uncouth 
body was it that hung strapped and strangled in the brick 
pit? Ambrose Sault’s? 

He remembered a second of painful experience when he 
had a confused memory of strange people and places, 
queer earthquake memories. He recollected having been 
flogged by a red-haired brute of a man who wielded a 
strap; he recalled a dim-lit cell and the pale blue eyes of 
a clergyman who was pleading with him; of a woman, 
dark-faced and thick-lipped — his mother? — he remem- 
bered the past of Ambrose Sault! He had been Ambrose 


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277 


Sault in those ten seconds, with all the consciousness of 
Sault’s life, all the passion of Sault’s faith. And then 
the weighted traps had fallen with a thunderous clap and 
he was Ronald Morelle again — only different. 

Yet he was not wholly conscious of the difference. What 
a strange business it was! How was humanity served by 
that ritual of death? His heart melted within him as in 
a vivid flash he saw the blank despair of the trussed victim 
of the law shuffling forward to annihilation. He was being 
weak — but, oh God, how sad, how unutterably sad! He 
sobbed into his hands and was pained at the futility of 
his grief. Poor soul! Poor, mean, smirched soul! How 
vilely it had served the beautiful body which was its habi- 
tation ! 

He looked up frowning, his tear-stained face puckered 
in perplexity. Beautiful body? Ambrose Sault was gross, 
uncouth. And by all accounts a good man. Even Steppe 
admired his principles. Why should principles be ad- 
mired? It was natural to be honest and clean. 

He had left the door of the pantry ajar; the shrill sound 
of the bell brought him to his feet. 

He waited to wipe his face and the bell rang again 
impatiently. 

“ My friend, you must wait,” said Ronnie. 

A third time the bell rang before he opened the door. 

Steppe filled the doorway, the expanse of his shirt-front 
showed like a great white heart, against the gloom of his 
evening dress. 

“Hello. You’re in, huh? Long time answering the 
bell — I suppose you’ve got somebody here.” 

He looked around. The only light in the room was the 


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shaded table-lamp. Ronnie had extinguished the others 
before he sat down. 

“The wicked love the darkness, huh, huh!” Steppe 
chuckled, and then looking past him, Ronnie saw that he 
was not alone. Beryl waited at the door and behind her 
was Dr. Merville. 

“ Get dressed and come out,” commanded Steppe noisily. 
“ What’s the matter with all you people, huh? Come along. 
We’re going to a theatre. You’re as bad as Beryl, sitting 
in the dark. You overbred people think too much.” 

“May we come in, Ronnie?” asked Beryl. 

It was very likely that Steppe’s crude suggestion was 
justified. She had no illusions about Ronnie. 

“Come in? Of course you can come in,” said Steppe 
scornfully. “Now hurry, Morelle. We’ll give you ten 
minutes — and put some lights on.” 

“There is enough light.” 

Ronnie’s voice was calm and deep. Steppe, turning to 
find the switch, swung back again and peered at his face. 

“What’s that?” he asked sharply. “I said there wasn’t 
— what have you done to your voice? Here!” 

He walked across the room and ran his hand down the 
three switches. 

Ronnie screwed up his eyes to meet the painful bril- 
liance. 

He saw Beryl’s look of surprise, met the stare of the 
big man. 

“He’s been crying!” bellowed Steppe in delight. “Huh, 
huh! Look at him. Beryl, sniveling!” 

“Mr. Steppe — Jan! How can you!” 

“How can I? By God, he’s been sniveling! Look at 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


279 


his face, look at his eyes!” Steppe slapped his thigh in an 
ecstasy of joy. “So it got you, huh? I couldn’t understand 
how a fellow like you could see it, without curling up!” 

His coarseness, the malignity, the heartlessness of the. 
man sickened Beryl Merville. But Ronnie — ! He was 
serene, unmoved by the other’s taunts, meeting his eyes 
steadily. 

“It was dreadful — so dreadful. Steppe. To see that 
poor shrieking thing thrust forward, struggling — ” 

“What!” shouted Steppe, and the girl gasped. “Am- 
brose Sault — shrieking in fear — ” 

“You lie!” snarled Steppe. “Sault wasn’t that kind. 
I’ve seen Maxton and he says he was without fear. You’re 
dreaming, you fool. If it had been you — yes. You’d 
have squealed — by God! You would have raised Cain! 
But Ambrose Sault — he was a man. D’ye hear, a man. 
He’s dead and I’m glad. But he was a man.” 

He held himself in with an effort. 

“ Get dressed and come out,” he ordered roughly. 

“ I’m so sorry, Ronnie,” the girl had come to him, pity 
and sympathy in her sad face. “ It was dreadful for you.” 

He nodded. “Yes — it was dreadful. I am not coming 
out tonight. Beryl.” 

She squeezed his arm gently. “ Poor Ronnie ! ” 

“ Poor fiddlesticks ! ” sneered Steppe. “ Hurry, cry-baby. 
I’m not going to wait here all night. What are you afraid 
of? You shouldn’t have seen the damned thing, if you 
were going to snivel about it. You should have ‘Tried the 
luck’!” 

He chuckled as at a joke as he saw the swollen eyes of 
his victim wander to the bookshelf. 


280 


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“The luck!” said Ronnie. He was speaking to himself, 
as he moved to the bookcase. 

Beryl saw him take down a worn volume and lay it on 
the table. He seemed like a man walking in his sleep. 
Mechanically he took up a miniature sword from a pin 
tray and held it for a moment in his hand. 

“ Try the luck!” scoffed Steppe. “ Shall I go to the play, 
shan’t I go to the play — dear Lord!” 

For the space of a second their eyes met and Beryl, 
watching, saw the big man start. Then the sword was 
thrust between the pages and the book opened. 

Ronnie looked gloomily at the close-set type — frowned. 
Then he read slowly, sonorously: 

“ I will take away from thee the desire of 
thine eyes with a stroke; yet neither shalt 
thou mourn nor weep; neither shall thy tears 
fall down.” 

The clock on the mantelpiece struck nine. 

A silence, painful and intense, so profound that Beryl’s 
quick breathings were audible. 

“ I will take away the desires of thine eyes 
with a stroke — ” 

“ Don’t read it again ! ” cried Steppe harshly. “ I’m 
going — listening to this fool — come on. Beryl.” 

Turning at the door she saw him still standing at the 
table. His face was in shadow, his hands white and shapely, 
outspread upon the leather-covered top; the open book 
between them. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


281 


“ He’s drunk,” said Steppe and she made no reply. Jan 
Steppe was very preoccupied all that evening, but not so 
completely oblivious of realities that he did not bargain 
with the doctor for certain shares in the Klein River Mine. 
Just before he had left his house Steppe had received a 
code cable from Johannesburg. 


Ill 


On the morning of Ambrose Sault’s execution, Evie found 
a letter awaiting her at the drug store. Whatever natural 
unhappiness of feeling she may have had when she left 
her weeping mother, vanished in the perusal of Ronnie’s 
long epistle. The envelope bore the St. John’s Wood 
postmark, but this she would not have regarded as signifi- 
cant, even if she had noticed it, which she did not. 

Not a love letter in the strictest sense; it was too precise 
and businesslike for that. It gave her certain dates to be 
cherished, certain instructions to be observed. It went to 
the length of naming Parisian dressmakers where she 
might be expeditiously fitted. She was to bring nothing, 
only a suitcase with bare necessities. A week’s stay in 
Paris would give her all the time she needed to equip 
herself. It was a trial to her that she would not see Ronnie 
for a month, not until the great day — she caught her 
breath at the thought. But he had stipulated this. Ronnie 
was too keen a student of women to give her the oppor- 
tunity of changing her mind. His letters could not he 
argued with, or questioned. 

And the month would quickly pass. Teddy Williams 
was a faithful attendant and, although he could not be com- 
pared in any respect with Ronnie, it was pleasant and 
flattering to extend her patronage to one who hung upon 
her words and regarded her as an authority upon most 
subjects. 

She had imparted her views on marriage to Teddy, and 

282 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


283 


that young man had been impressed without being con- 
vinced. 

Ronnie’s letter was to be read and re-read. She expected 
another the next day and, when it did not come, she was 
disappointed. Yet he had not promised to write; in his 
letter he had said : “ Until you are my very own, I shall 
live the life of an anchorite.” 

She looked up “anchorite” and found that it meant 
“ one who retires from society to a desert or solitary place 
to avoid the temptations of the world and to devote himself 
to religious exercises,” and accepted this as a satisfactory 
explanation, though she couldn’t imagine Ronnie engaging 
himself in religious exercises. 

Life ran normally at home, now that Mr. Sault was dead. 
Evie had felt very keenly the disgrace of having a lodger 
who was a murderer. Only the fact that Ronnie knew him, 
too, and to some extent shared in the general odium, pre- 
vented her from enlarging upon the scandal to her mother 
and Christina. Beyond her comprehension was her sister’s 
remarkable cheerfulness. Christina didn’t seem to care 
whether Mr. Sault was alive or dead. She was her own 
caustic self and the shadow of her proper woe failed to 
soften or sadden her. 

A week of her waiting had passed before Christina even 
mentioned the name of Ambrose Sault, and then it was in 
connection with the disposal of his room. Apparently he 
had paid his rent for a long period in advance, and Mrs. 
Colebrook refused to let the room again until the tenancy 
had expired. 

“Mother is being sentimental over Ambrose and his 
room,” said Christina, “hut there is no reason why you 


284 


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shouldn’t have the room, Evie. You’ve been aching for 
privacy as long as I can remember.” 

Evie shuddered. 

“ I couldn’t sleep there, I’d be afraid he’d haunt me.” 

“ I should be afraid he wouldn’t,” said Christina, with a 
little smile. “ If you don’t like the idea, I will have my 
bed put in there.” 

“No, no, please don’t, Christina,” begged the girl ur- 
gently, “I — I prefer to sleep here if you don’t mind. I 
want to be with you as much as I can and I’m out all day.” 

“And home much earlier. Is it Ronnie or Teddy?” 

“I’m seeing a lot of Teddy,” replied Evie primly, “he 
is quite a nice boy.” 

“And Ronnie?” 

“Leave Ronnie alone,” Evie turned a good-humored 
smile to her. “ He is too busy to meet me so often.” 

“Loud cheers,” said the ironical Christina. “Evie — 
why don’t you ask him to call here? I should enjoy a chat 
with him.” 

“Here?” Evie was incredulous. “How absurd! Ronnie 
wouldn’t dream of coming here.” 

Christina laughed. 

“ I won’t tease you any more, Evie. Does he ever say 
anything about Ambrose? He was in the prison when 
Ambrose was executed.” 

Evie writhed. 

“ I wish you wouldn’t talk about it, Christina — in such 
a cold-blooded way — ugh!” 

“ Does he?” 

“I haven’t seen him since that — that awful day,” she 
said, “and I’m sure he wouldn’t talk about it.” Evie 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


285 


hesitated. “Do you think much about Mr. Sault, Chris?” 

Christina put down her knitting in her lap and nodded. 

“All the time,” she said, “he isn’t out of my thoughts 
for a second. Not his face, I mean, or his awkward-looking 
body, but the real. Do you remember, Evie, how embar- 
rassed I used to make him sometimes, and how he’d rub 
his chin with the back of his hand? I always knew when 
Ambrose was troubled. And how he used to sit on my bed 
and listen so seriously to all my wails and whines?” 

Evie looked for some evidence of emotion, but Chris- 
tina’s eyes were dry — she appeared to be happy. 

“Yes — Chris, do you think I ought to take these stock- 
ings hack to the store? They laddered the first time I put 
them on and I paid a terrible price for them.” 

Christina took the stockings from the girl and there all 
talk of Ambrose Sault came to an end. 

A few afternoons later, returning from her early walk, 
she was met at the door by her agitated mother. 

“There’s a gentleman called to see you, Christina, he’s 
in the kitchen.” 

“A gentleman?” 

“A gentleman” might mean anything by Mrs. Cole- 
brook’s elastic description. 

“ He’s a friend of Miss Merville’s named Mr. Morelle.” 

“What?” Christina could hardly believe her ears. Ron- 
nie Morelle? Had Evie conveyed her joking request to 
him? Even if she had, it was not likely he would call for 
the pleasure of seeing her. 

Mrs. Colebrook hustled her into the kitchen and closed 
the door on them. She had all the respect of her class for 
the sanctity of private conversation. 


286 


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Ronnie was sitting in the chair where Ambrose had so 
often sat, as Mrs. Colebrook reminded her at least three 
times a day. He rose as she entered and stood surveying her. 

It was the first time she had seen him close at hand, and 
her first impression was one of admiration. She had never 
met so good-looking a man and instantly she absolved Evie 
for her infatuation. He did not offer his hand at first, and 
it was not until she was about to speak that it came out to 
her shyly. It was a strong hand and the warmth of the 
grip surprised her. 

“Christina!” he said softly and she felt herself go red. 

“That is my name. You are Ronnie Morelle? I have 
heard a great deal about you from Evie.” 

“From Evie? — yes, why of course! Your mother is 
looking well. She works very hard — too hard I think. 
Women ought not to do such heavy work.” 

She sat, tongue-tied, could only point to the chair from 
which he had risen. 

“ I had to come to see you — but I have been rather 
occupied and selfish. I have been reading a great deal — 
a sheer delight. You will understand that? And poor 
Frangois has had a lot of trouble, his brother developed 
appendicitis. We have had an anxious time.” 

Ronnie Morelle! And he was talking gravely of the 
anxious time he had had because the brother of his servant 
— it was incredible. 

She never dreamed that he was this kind of man ; all her 
preconceived ideas and more than half of her prejudice 
against him, were swept away in a second. He was sincere ; 
she knew it. Absolutely sincere. This was no pose of his. 

“You haven’t seen Evie — oh, yes, you have! She told 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


287 


you I wanted to see you, Mr. Morelle. I do, although I 
was only joking when I suggested your coming. Are you 
very fond of Evie?” 

“Yes, she is a nice child. A little thoughtless and per- 
haps a little selfish. Young girls are that way, especially 
if they are pretty. I am fond of young people, all young 
things have an appeal for me. Kittens, puppies, chicks — 
I can watch them for hours.” 

This was Ronnie Morelle. She had to tell herself all the 
lime. He was the man whom Ambrose Sault had described 
as “ foul ” and Ambrose was so charitable in his judg- 
ments; the man who had taken Beryl Merville. 

“ I am glad you spoke of Evie,” he went on. “ She must 
not be hurt. At her age men make a profound impression 
and color the whole of after-life. It is so easy to sour the 
young. It is hard to improve on the old texts,” he smiled. 
“ I wonder why I try. ‘ As the twig is bent, so is the tree 
inclined.’ I never think that it is wise to reason with a 
girl in love — fascinated is a better word. Aegrescit men- 
deno! The disease thrives on remedies. I don’t know 
where I picked up that phrase — it is Latin, isn’t it?” 

He went red again, was painfully embarrassed. 

She fell back against the wall, white as death. Only by 
an effort of will did she arrest the scream that arose in her 
throat. 

In his distress he was rubbing his chin with his knuckle! 

“ Oh, my God I ” cried Christina, wide-eyed. Springing 
up she took both his hands and looked into his face. 

“ Don’t you know!’’ she breathed. 

A smile dawned slowly in the handsome face of Ronnie 
Morelle. 


288 


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“ I know it is very good to see you, Christina,” he said. 

“ Don’t you — know ? Look at me — Ronnie ! ” 

Then as suddenly she released his hands and held on to 
the table. 

“Get me some water, please.” 

She watched him as he went unerringly into the scullery. 
There were two taps, one connected with a rain-water 
cistern that her father had made; the other was the drink- 
ing water. 

He turned the right tap, found a glass where it was 
invariably hidden on a shelf behind a cretonne curtain, 
and brought it back to her. 

She drank greedily. 

“ Sit down — Ronnie. I want you to tell me something. 
You went to the execution — I know it hurts you, my dear, 
but you must tell me. How did he die?” 

She waited, holding her breath. 

“It was — terrible,” he said in a low voice, “he was so 
afraid!” 

“Afraid!” she whispered. 

“ I don’t remember much. Every thought seemed to have 
gone out of my mind. Afterwards I was so numbed — why, 
I didn’t even recognize my own car or know that I had a 
car.” 

“ Did you touch him — look at him, then, did you, 
Ronnie?” 

Ronald Morelle answered with a gesture. 

“ Did you — ?” 

“ I looked at him, but only for a second. He was reciting 
a poem. Henley’s. I was reading it today, trying to recall 
things. That was all, I just looked into his eyes and I was 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


289 


feeling hateful toward him, Christina. And that was all. 
He began to moan and cry out. I was terribly distressed.” 

She said no more. She wanted to be alone with her mad 
thoughts. When he rose to go, she was glad. 

“ ril come again on Wednesday,” he said, but corrected 
his promise. “ No, Wednesday is wash-day. Your mother 
will not want me here.” 

“ How do you know, Ronnie, that it is mother’s wash- 
day?” she was addressing him as if he were a child from 
whom information must be coaxed. 

“ I don’t know. Evie may have told me — of course it 
is Wednesday, Christina!” 

She nodded. 

“Yes, it is Wednesday.” 

Mrs. Colebrook, consonant with her principles, had 
effaced herself so effectively that Christina had to seek her 
in her hiding-place. She was sitting in Sault’s room and 
sniffed suspiciously when the girl called her. 

“ Mother, you have often told me about something Am- 
brose did when you were very ill. Will you tell me again?” 

Mrs. Colebrook was happy to tell, embellishing the story 
with footnotes and interpolations descriptive of her own 
impressions on that occasion. 

“Thank you. Mother.” 

“What did he want? I didn’t like to come down whilst 
he was here — not in this old skirt. Did he know poor Mr. 
Sault? A la-did-da sort of fellow, but very polite. He 
quite flustered me, he was so friendly.” 

She relieved the girl from the necessity for replying by 
supplying her own answers. 

At the foot of the stairs Mrs. Colebrook heard the snick 


290 


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of a key as Christina locked the door of her room. Mrs. 
Colebrook sighed. Christina was getting more and more 
unsociable. 


IV 


Did Beryl know — should she know? Suppose she went 
to her and told her the crazy theory she had? Beryl would 
doubt her sanity. No, no good would come of precipitancy. 
She must be sure, thought Christina, lying on her bed, her 
hand at her mouth as though she feared that she might 
involutarily cry her news aloud. 

No particulars of Ambrose Sault’s death had appeared in 
the press. The longest notice was one which, after a brief 
reference to the execution, went on to give details con- 
cerning the crime. Practically the references to the execu- 
tion were similar: 

“ Ambrose Sault was executed at Wechester 
Jail yesterday morning for the murder of 
Paul Moropulos. The condemned man walked 
with a firm step to the gallows and death was 
instantaneous. He made no statement. Billet 
was the executioner.” 

The hangman always received his puff. When she had 
been staying with Beryl, she had met Sir John Maxton; 
he had returned on the morning of the execution and had 
come straight to the house. He had said nothing that gave 
her any impression except that Ambrose had died bravely. 
Would he have heard anything later? She made up her 
mind, dressed and went out. There was a telephone a block 
291 


292 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


away and she got through to Sir John’s chambers in the 
Temple. To her relief he answered the telephone himself. 

“Is that you, Sir John? It is Christina Colebrook — yes 

— I’m very well. Can I see you, Sir John? Any time, 
now if you wish. I could be with you in twenty minutes 

— oh, thank you — thank you so much.” 

A bus dropped her in Fleet Street and she walked through 
the Temple grounds to the ugly and dreary buildings where 
he rented chambers. They were on the ground floor, hap- 
pily; Christina was still a semi-invalid. 

“You’ve come to ask me about Sault!” he said as soon 
as she was announced. 

“Why do you think that?” she smiled. 

“ I guessed. I suppose Ronnie has told everybody about 
the ghastly business. It seems impossible, impossible that 
he could have shown the white feather as he did,” said Sir 
John. “ I can hardly believe it is true, and yet when I got 
into touch with the deputy governor, he told me very much 
the same story — that one moment Sault was calm and 
literally smiling at death; the very next instant he was — 
pitiful, blubbering like a child. I hate telling you this, 
because I know you were such dear friends, but — you 
want to know?” 

She inclined her head. 

“Nothing else happened?” 

“Nothing — oh, yes, there was one curious circumstance. 
In the midst of his amazing outburst Sault cried: ‘Ronald 
Morelle of Balliol!’ Did he know that Ronnie was at 
Balliol? I can only imagine that by this time he hadn’t 
any idea at all what he was talking about.” 

She rose. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


293 


“Thank you, Sir John,” she said quietly, “you have 
saved my reason.” 

“ In what way?” His curiosity was piqued. 

“There was something I had to believe — or go mad. 
That is cryptic, isn’t it? But I can’t be plain, for fear you 
think I’ve lost my reason already!” 

Sir John was too polite to press her, too much of a lawyer 
to reveal his curiosity. He went on to talk of Sault. 

“ He was certainly the best man I have met in my life. 
By ‘best’ I particularly refer to his moral character, his 
ideals, his sense of divinity. His courage humbled me, 
his philosophy left me feeling like a child of six. I must 
believe what I am told, so I accept the story about his 
having made a scene on the scaffold, without question. But 
there is an explanation for it, that I’ll swear, and an expla- 
nation creditable to Ambrose Sault.” 

Christina went home with a light heart, convinced. 

She had begun a letter to Beryl and was debating half- 
way through whether she would as much as hint her pe- 
culiar theory, when Evie burst into the room cyclonically, 
her eyes blazing. 

“ He’s been here 1 Mother said so — you were talking to 
him for a long time! Oh, Chris, what did he say — wasn’t 
it wonderful of him to come? Don’t you think he is hand- 
some, Chris? Own up — isn’t he a gorgeous man? Did 
he ask after me, was he very disappointed when he found 
I was out — ?” 

“ I’ll take your questions in order,” said Christina, sol- 
emnly ticking them off on her finger. “ He has been here, 
if he is Ronnie; he said a lot of things. It was certainly 
wonderful for me that he came. He asked after you, but 


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didn’t seem to be cast down to find you were out. Was that 
the lot? I hope so.” 

“But Christina!” she was quivering with excitement. 
“What do you think of him?” 

“I — think — he — is — sublime ! ” 

Evie glanced at her resentfully, suspecting sarcasm; saw 
that her sister was in earnest, and seeing this, was con- 
founded. 

“He is very nice,” she said less enthusiastic, “yes — a 
dear — did you really get on with him, Chris? How queer! 
And after all that you’ve said about him! Didn’t your 
conscience prick you — ?” 

Christina sent her red locks flying in a vigorous head- 
shake. 

“No, it wasn’t conscience,” she said. 

Evie, from being boisterously interested, became quietly 
distrait. 

“ Of one thing I am certain,” volunteered Christina, “ and 
it is that he will never behave dishonorably or give you, 
or for the matter of that, mother and me, one hour’s real 
pain.” 

“No — I’m sure he won’t,” said Evie awkwardly, the 
more awkward, because she was trying so hard not to be. 

“ Such a man couldn’t be mean. I am certain of that,” 
Christina went on. “ Evie, I am not scared about you any 
more — and I was, you know. Just scared! Sometimes 
when you came back from seeing Ronnie, I dared not 
look at you for fear — I didn’t exactly know what I feared. 
Now — well, I feel that you are in good hands, darling, 
and I shall not be thinking every time you go out: ‘I 
wonder if she will come back again?’” 


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295 


Evie’s face was burning. If she had spoken, she would 
have betrayed herself. She became interested in the con- 
tents of a hanging cupboard and hummed a careless tune, 
shakily. 

“Are you singing or is it the hinge?” asked Christina. 

“You’re very rude — I was singing — humming.” 

“There must be music in the family somewhere,” said 
Christina, “ probably it goes back to our lordly ancestor — ” 

“I told Teddy about that, about Lord Fransham — ” 

“Did you tell Ronnie?” 

Evie wondered if she should say. Christina was so 
excellently disposed toward him that it would be a pity 
to excite her resentment. 

“Yes — he laughed. He said everybody has a lord in 
his family if he only goes back far enough. Teddy 
thought it was wonderful and he said — you’ll laugh?” 

“I swear I won’t.” 

“Well — he said that he knew that I had aristocratic 
blood by my instep, it is so arched. And it is you know, 
Chris, just look!” 

“ Shurrup 1 ” said Christina vulgarly. 

“Well — he did. Teddy isn’t half the fool you think 
him. I don’t exactly mean you, Chris, but people. His 
father has a tremendous farm, miles and miles of it. He 
sent Teddy over here for six months. What do you think 
for?” 

Christina couldn’t think. 

“To find a wife!” said Evie. “Isn’t it quaint? And do 
you know that Teddy is staying at the Carlton-Grand. I 
thought he was living with his aunt in Tenton Street and 
I only discovered by accident that he was staying at a 


296 


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swagger hotel. He said he would write and tell his father 
about our lord.” 

She sighed heavily. 

“I like Teddy awfully. He is so grateful for — well, 
for anything I can do for him, such as putting his tie 
straight and telling him about things.” 

“Why don’t you marry Teddy?” 

A few weeks ago Evie would have snorted scornfully. 
Now she was silent for a long time. She sighed again. 

“ That is impossible. I’m too fond of Ronnie and I 
believe in keeping — in keeping my word. Teddy’s father 
is building a beautiful little house for him. And Teddy 
says that he has a quiet horse that a girl could ride. He 
believes in riding astride, so do I. I’ve never ridden, but 
that is the way I should ride — through the corn for 
miles and miles. You can see the mountains from Teddy’s 
farm. They are covered with snow, even in the summer. 
There is a place called Banff where you can have a per- 
fectly jolly time, dances and all that. In the winter, when 
it is freezingly cold, Teddy goes to Vancouver, where it 
is quite warm. He has an orange-farm somewhere.” 

For the third time she sighed. Christina in her wisdom, 
made no comment. 


V 


Evie usually had her breakfast alone. Christina was 
late and Mrs. Colebrook breakfasted before her family 
came down and was, moreover, so completely occupied in 
supplying the needs of her youngest daughter, that it would 
have been impossible to settle herself down to a meal. 

Evie was generally down by a quarter to eight; the 
post came at eight o’clock. Until recently Evie had no 
interest in the movements of that official. Very few letters 
came to the house in any circumstances and of these Evie’s 
share was negligible. 

Teddy brought a new interest to the morning for he 
was a faithful correspondent, and the girl would have 
known long before, that he was an inmate of a superior 
caravanserie, had not the youth, in his modesty, written 
on the plainest of notepaper. Not then, nor at any other 
time, did the mail have any thrill for Mrs. Colebrook. She 
had a well-to-do sister living in the north who wrote to her 
regularly every six months. These letters might have been 
published as a supplement to the Nomenclature of Diseases, 
for they constituted a record of the obscure ailments which 
inflicted the writer’s family. She had a sister-in-law living 
within a mile of her, whom she seldom saw and never heard 
from. Whatever letters came to the house were either for 
Christina or Evie, generally for Christina. 

Ambrose Sault had once presented Christina with five 

297 


298 


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hundred postal cards. It was one of the freakish things 
that Ambrose did, but behind it, there was a solid reason. 
Christina enjoyed a constant supply of old magazines and 
out-of-date periodicals. Evie collected them for her from 
her friends. And in these publications were alluring 
advertisements, the majority of which begged the reader, 
italically, to send for Illustrated Catalogue No. 74, or to 
write to Desk H. for a beautiful handbook describing at 
greater length the wonders of the articles advertised. 
Sometimes samples were offered, samples of baby’s food, 
samples of fabric, samples of soap and patent medicine, 
and other delectable products. 

Christina had expressed a wish that she could write, and 
Ambrose had supplied the means. Thereafter Christina’s 
letter-bag was a considerable one. She knew more about 
motor-cars, their advantages over one another, their super- 
excellent speeds and economies, than the average dealer. 
If you asked her what car ran the longest distance on a 
can of petrol, she would not only tell you, but would 
specify which was the better of the gases supplied. She 
knew the relative nutritive qualities of every breakfast 
food on the market; the longest- wearing boots and the 
cheapest furniture. 

Evie had finished her meal when the postman knocked. 

“A letter from Teddy and a sample for Christina, I 
suppose,” speculated Mrs. Colebrook, hurrying to the 
door. She invariably ran to meet the postman having 
a confused idea that it was an offence, punishable under the 
penal code, to keep him waiting. 

There was no mail for Christina. 

“Here’s your letter.” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


299 


Evie took the stout and expensive looking envelope, 
embossed redly with the name of the hotel. 

“Who’s writing to me?” asked Mrs. Colebrook. She 
turned the letter over, examined the handwriting, criti- 
cally deciphered the post-mark — finally tore open the 
flap of the envelope. 

“Well, I never!” said Mrs. Colebrook. She looked at 
the heading again. “Who is ‘Johnson and Kennett’?” 
she asked. 

“The house agents? There is a firm of that name in 
Knightsbridge. What is it, mother?” 

Mrs. Colebrook read aloud. 

“Dear Madam: We have been requested to approach 
you in regard to work which we feel you would care to 
undertake. A client of ours has a small house on the con- 
tinent, for which he is anxious to secure a housekeeper. 
Knowing, through Dr. Merville, that you have a daughter 
who is recovering from an illness, he asks me to state that 
he would be glad if your daughter accompanied you. There 
is practically no work, three servants, all of whom speak 
English, are kept, and our client wishes us to state that 
the grounds are extensive and pretty, and hopes that you 
will make the freest use of them, and the small car which he 
will leave there. He himself does not expect to occupy the 
house, so that you will be practically free from any kind 
of supervision.” 

The salary was named. It was generous. 

Mrs. Colebrook looked over her glasses at the wondering 
Evie. 

“Mother! How perfectly splendid!” 

But Mrs. Colebrook was not so enthusiastic. Change of any 


300 


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kind was anathema. She had acted as housekeeper in her 
younger days, so that the work had no terrors for her, 
but — abroad! 

Foreign countries meant peril. Foreigners to her were 
sinister men who carried knives, and were possessed of 
homicidal tendencies. They spoke a language expressly 
designed to conceal their evil intentions, and they found 
their recreation in plotting in underground chambers. 
There was a cinema at the end of Walter Street. 

“ There is something written on the other side,” said 
Evie suddenly. 

Mrs. Colebrook turned the sheet. 

“The invitation extends to your younger daughter, if 
she would care to accompany you.” 

“Well!” said Evie, and flew up the stairs to Christina’s 
room. 

“ Christina ! What do you think ! Mother has had a 
letter from a house agent offering — ” 

“Don’t tell me!” Christina interrupted, “let me guess! 
They’ve offered her a beautiful house in the country rent 
free — no? Then they’ve offered — let me think — a house 
in a nice warm climate where I can bask in the sunshine 
and watch the butterflies flirting with the roses!” 

Evie’s jaw dropped. 

“Whatever made you think — ?” 

Christina snatched the letter and read, her eyes bright 
with excitement. 

“ Oh, golly!” she said and laughed so long that Evie grew 
alarmed. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


301 


“No, I’m not mad, and I’m not clairvoyant. Mother, 
what do you think of it?” 

Mrs. Colebrook had followed her daughter upstairs. 

“ I don’t know what to think,” she said. She was one of 
those people who welcome an opportunity to show their 
indecision. Mrs. Colebrook liked to be “ persuaded ”, 
though she might make up her mind irrevocably, it was 
necessary that argument round and about should be offered, 
before she yielded her tentative agreement. 

Nobody knew this better than Christina. She drew a 
long sigh of relief, recognising the signs. 

“ We’ll talk it over after Evie has gone to her pill-shop,” 
she said, and for once Evie did not contest a description of 
her place of business, which usually provoked her to retort. 

“ I only want to say, mother, that you need not worry 
about me. I can get lodgings at one of the girl’s hostels. 
I don’t think I want to go abroad. In fact, I know that I 
don’t. But it would be fine for Christina. It is my dream 
come true. I’ve always had that plan for her — a place 
where she could sit in the sunshine and watch the flowers 
grow.” 

Christina’s smile was all loving-kindness; she took the 
girl’s fingers in her hand and pinched them softly. 

“ Off to your workshop, woman,” she ordered. “ Mother 
and I want to talk about the sunny south.” 

“ I’m not sure that I can take it,” said Mrs. Colebrook 
dismally, “I don’t like the idea of living in a foreign 
place — ” 

“We’ll discuss that,” said Christina in her businesslike 
way. “Did those linoleum patterns come?” 


VI 


There was no letter for Evie when she arrived at the 
store. Curiously enough she was not as disappointed as 
she expected to be. There was a chance that Ronnie 
would have written after his visit to the house, but when 
she found her desk bare, she accepted his neglect with 
equanimity. 

Her love for Ronnie was undiminished. She faced, with 
a coolness which was unnatural in her, the future he had 
sketched, and if at times she felt a twinge of uneasiness, she 
put the less pleasant aspect away from her. It would not 
be honorable to go back on her word, even if she wanted 
to do so. And she did not. As to the more agreeable 
prospect, she did not think about that either. It was easier 
to dismiss the whole thing from her mind. She told herself 
she was being philosophical. In reality, she was solving 
her problem by the simple process of forgetting it. 

Leaving the store at midday to get her lunch, she saw 
Ronnie. He was driving past in his big Rolls and appar- 
ently he did not see her. Why was she glad — for glad 
she was? That thought had to be puzzled out in the after- 
noon, with disastrous consequences to her cash balance, 
for when she made her return that night, she was short 
the price of a hot-water bottle. 

But Ronnie had seen her, long before she had seen him. 
He was on his way to lunch with a man he knew but 
302 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


303 


toward whom he had for some reason conceived a dislike. 
It was rather strange, because Jerry Talbot was the one 
acquaintance he possessed who might be called “ friend 
They had known one another at Oxford, they had for some 
time hunted in pairs, they shared memories of a common 
shame. Yet when Jerry’s excited voice had called him 
on the telephone that morning and had begged him to meet 
his erstwhile partner at Vivaldi’s, Ronnie experienced a 
sense of nausea. He would have refused the invitation, but 
before he could frame the words, Jerry had rung off. 

Vivaldi’s is a smart but not too smart restaurant, and 
had been a favorite lunching place of Ronnie’s. It was all 
the more unreasonable in him, that he should descend 
beneath the glass-roofed portico with a feeling of revulsion. 

Mr. Talbot had not arrived, said the beaming maitre de 
hotel. Yes, he had booked a table. Ronnie seated himself 
in the lounge and a bellboy brought him an evening news- 
paper which he did not read. Had he done so, he would 
not have waited. 

Half an hour passed and Ronnie was feeling hungry. 
Another quarter of an hour. 

“I am going into the restaurant — when Mr. Talbot 
comes, tell him I have begun my lunch.” 

He was shown to the table and chose a simple meal 
from the card. At any rate, Jerry’s unpardonable rudeness 
gave him an excuse for declining further invitations. 

He had finished his lunch and had signalled for his 
bill when, looking round, he recognized two men at one of 
the window tables. He would not have approached them, 
but Sir John Maxton beckoned. 

Dr. Merville would gladly have dispensed with his 


304 


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presence, thought Ronnie, and wondered if he had intruded 
into an important conference. 

“ Come and sit down, Ronnie. Lunching alone? That 
is rather unusual, isn’t it?” 

“My friend disappointed me,” said Ronnie and he saw 
the doctor’s lip curl. 

“Did she — too bad,” said Maxton. 

“ It was a ‘ he corrected Ronnie, and knew that 
neither man believed him. 

He noticed Sir John glancing at his companion. 

“ Ronnie, I wonder if you can help us. Do you remem- 
ber the flotation of that Traction Company of Steppe’s?” 

“ I don’t think it is much good asking Ronnie,” the 
doctor broke in with a touch of impatience. “Ronnie’s 
memory is a little too convenient.” 

“ I remember the flotation — in a way,” admitted Ronnie. 

“ Do you remember the meeting that was held at Steppe’s 
house when he produced the draft of the prospectus?” 

Ronnie nodded. 

“Before we go any farther, John,” interrupted Mer- 
ville, “ I think it will be fair to Ronnie, if w'e tell him 
that there is trouble over the prospectus. Some of the 
financial papers are accusing us of faking the assets. The 
question is, was I responsible, by including properties 
which I should not have included, or did Steppe, in his 
draft, give me the facts as I published them? I don’t 
think Ronnie will remember quite so vividly if he knows 
that he may be running counter to Steppe.” 

Ronnie did not answer. 

“You see what I am driving at,” Sir John went on. 
“ There may be bad trouble if the Public Prosecutor takes 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


305 


these accusations seriously — which, so far he hasn’t. We 
want to be prepared if he does.” 

“ I cannot remember very clearly,” said Ronnie. “ I 
am not a member of the Board. But I do recall very 
clearly Steppe showing a draft and not only showing it, 
but reading it.” 

“ Do you remember whether in that draft he referred 
to the Woodside Repairing Sheds; and if he did, whether 
he spoke of those as being the absolute property or leased 
property of the company?” 

“ The absolute property,” said Ronnie. “ I remember 
distinctly because the Woodside Repairing Shops are on 
the edge of a little estate which my father left me — you 
remember, John? And naturally I was interested.” 

Merville was dumbfounded. Never in his most sanguine 
moments did he suppose that Ronnie would assist him 
in this respect. Ronnie, who shivered at a word from 
Steppe, whose sycophantic servant he had been! 

“This may come to a fight,” said Sir John, “and that 
would mean putting you in the box to testify against 
Steppe. Have you quarrelled with him?” 

“Good gracious, no!” said Ronnie in surprise. “Why 
should I quarrel with him? He doesn’t worry me. In a 
way he is amusing, in another way pathetic. I feel sometimes 
sorry for him. A man with such attainments, such powers 
and yet so paltry! I often wonder why he prefers the 
mean way to the big way. He uses his power outrageously, 
his strength brutally. Perhaps he didn’t start right — 
got all his proportions wrong. I was working it out last 
night — the beginnings of Steppe — and concluded that 
he must have had an unhappy childhood. If a child is 


306 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


treated meanly, and is the victim of mean tyrannies, he 
grows up to regard the triumph of meanness as the 
supreme end in life. His whole outlook is colored that 
way, and methods which we normal people look upon as 
despicable are perfectly legitimate in his eyes.” 

“Good God!” said Sir John aghast. It was the man, 
not the arguments which startled him. 

“ Children ought not to be left to the chance training 
which their parents give them,” Ronnie went on, full of 
his subject, “ but here, I admit, I am postulating a condi- 
tion of society which will never be realized. Some day I 
will start my Mother College. It is a queer sounding 
title,” he said apologetically, “but you will understand I 
want a great institution where we can take the illegitimate 
children of the country, the unwanted children. They go 
to baby farmers and beasts of that kind now. I want a 
college of babies w^here we will teach them and train them 
from their babyhood up to think and feel goodly, not 
piously. That doesn’t matter. But bigly and generously. 
To have high ideals and broad visions; to — ” 

He stopped and blushed, conscious of their interest and 
stupefaction; squirmed unhappily in his chair, and rubbed 
his chin nervously with the knuckles of his hand. 

Sir John Maxton leaned back in his chair, his face 
twitching. 

A waiter was passing. 

“ Bring me a brandy,” he said hoarsely, “ a double 
brandy.” 

Christina had only wanted water. 


VII 


“What flabbergasts me is Ronnie’s willingness to go 
against Steppe,” said the doctor, just before he dropped 
Sir John at his chambers. 

He had done most of the talking since they left Vivaldi’s 
and Maxton had been content that he should. 

“I can only suppose that Ronnie has had a row with 
Jan.” 

“ Tell me this, Merville,” said Sir John, leaning his arms 
on the edge of the door and speaking into the car, “if you 
believe that Steppe is the rascal I pretty well know him 
to be, why are you allowing Beryl to marry him?” 

An awkward question for the doctor. 

“Oh, well — one isn’t sure. I may be in error after all. 
Steppe is quite a good fellow.” 

“ Do you owe him money?” asked Maxton quietly. 

Close friendship has its privileges. 

“A little — nothing to speak of. You don’t think I 
would sacrifice Beryl — ?” 

“ I don’t know, Bertram — I don’t know. Why ever you 
took up with that crowd is beyond me.” 

“By the way,” said the doctor, anxious to switch to 
another subject, “that isn’t an original idea of Ronnie’s — 
the Mother College, or whatever he calls it. Poor Ambrose 
Sault had exactly the same dream. I never heard the details 
307 


308 


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from him, but he has mentioned it. Funny that Ronnie is 
taking it up?” 

“Yes,” Sir John waved his hand and went into the 
building. 

He rang for his clerk. 

“ Do you remember a young lady coming to see me a 
few days ago? A Miss Colebrook — have we any record of 
her address?” 

“No, Sir John.” 

“ H’m — put me through to Dr. Merville’s house in Park 
Place — I want to speak to Miss Merville.” 

A minute later: 

“Yes — John Maxton speaking, is that you. Beryl? I 
want to know Miss Colebrook’s address — thank you,” he 
scribbled on his blotting pad. “Thank you — no, my 
dear, only I may have to get in touch with her.” 

He remembered after he had hung up the telephone, 
that Ambrose Sault had propounded a will in which the 
address had appeared, but the will was in the hands of 
Sir John’s own lawyers. Ambrose had left very little, so 
little that it was hardly worth while taking probate. But 
the recollection of the will gave him the excuse he wanted. 

“ Sir John rang me up, father, he asked for Christina’s 
address. Do you know why?” 

“No, dear. I wonder he didn’t ask me. I have been 
lunching with him — and Ronnie. Rather, Ronnie joined 
us after lunch was through — he was loquacious and 
strange. H’m — ” 

“How strange?” 

“Beryl, did you notice the other night — I agree with 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


309 


you, Steppe was brutal — how deep his voice had grown? 
Boys’ voices change that way when they reach an age, but 
Ronnie isn’t a boy. Changed — and his views on affairs. 
He held John spellbound whilst he delivered himself volu- 
bly on illegitimate children and the future of the race. 
And the curious thing is that Ronnie hates children. Loathes 
them; he makes no secret of that. Says that they are irre- 
sponsible animals that should be kept on the leash.” 

“He said that today?” 

“No — oh, a long time ago. Now he wants a big insti- 
tution where they can be trained — maybe it is a variation 
of his leash and cage theory. How did you get on?” 

Steppe had been to lunch and was in the hall about to 
take his departure when Sir John rang. 

“ He came,” she said indifferently, “ it was a — pleasant 
lunch. I think he enjoyed it. I had mealies for him and 
he wrestled with them happily.” 

“Did you discuss anything?” 

“The happy day?” she said ironically. “Yes, next 
Tuesday. Quietly. We go to Paris the same night. He 
wants the honeymoon to be spent in the Bavarian Alps, 
and he is sending his car on to Paris. I think that is all 
the news.” 

Her indiflference bothered him. 

“ Steppe, I am sure, is a man who improves on acquaint- 
ance,” he said encouragingly. 

“ I am sure he does,” she agreed politely, “ will you tell 
Ronnie, or shall I write to him?” 

“ I will tell Ronnie,” said the doctor hastily. “ I don’t 
think I should encourage a correspondence with him, if 
I were you. Beryl. Jan doesn’t like it. He was furious 


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about you insisting upon Ronnie coming out with us the 
other night.” 

“ Very well,” said Beryl. 

“I think — I only think, you understand, that Steppe 
is under the impression that you were once very fond of 
Ronnie, or that you had an affair with him. He is a very 
jealous man. You must remember that, Beryl.” 

“ It almost seems that I am going to be happily married,” 
she said with a queer smile. 

She did not write to Ronnie. There was nothing to be 
gained by encouraging a correspondence — she agreed en- 
tirely with her father on that point. Steppe she dismissed 
from her thoughts just as quickly as she could. 

Why had Sir John asked for Christina’s address? There 
was no reason why he should not. Perhaps Ambrose left 
a message — but that would have been delivered long ago. 
And — if Ambrose had left any message, it would be to her. 
The will perhaps. The doctor had told them both that 
Ambrose had left his few possessions to Christina. She 
was glad of that. Yes, it must be the will. 

This served at any rate to explain Sir John’s call. 

The appearance of a title at her front door, caused Mrs. 
Colebrook considerable qualms. It was her fate never to 
be wearing a skirt appropriate to the social standing of 
distinguished visitors. 

Christina was lying down. She had had an interview with 
the osteopath in the morning and he had insisted upon 
twenty-four hours of bed. 

“ Show him up, mother. He won’t faint at the sight of 
a girl in bed — lawyers have a special training in that 
sort of thing.” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


311 


“He doesn’t look like a lawyer,” demurred Mrs. Cole- 
brook, “ he’s a sir.” 

She conducted the counsel upstairs with many warnings 
as to the lowness of roof and trickiness of tread. Mrs. 
Colebrook was resigned to the character and number of 
Christina’s visitors and, in that spirit of resignation, left 
them. 

“We have met,” said Sir John and looked around for a 
chair. 

“Sit on the bed. Sir John,” she laughed, “Evie broke 
the leg of the chair last night.” 

He obeyed her, looking at her quizzically. 

“ I saw Ronald Morelle at lunch today,” he said, “ I 
thought it best to see you — first. And let me get the will 
off my mind. It has been proved and there is a hundred or 
so to come to you. Ambrose was not well off, his salary in 
fact was ridiculously small. That, however, is by the way. 
I saw Ronnie.” 

She returned his steady searching gaze. 

“Did you talk to Ronnie?” 

“ I talked to Ronnie,” he nodded, “ and Ronnie talked 
to me. Have you ever seen a man who had the odd habit 
of rubbing his chin with the back of his hand? I see that 
you have. Ronnie for example? Yes, I thought you would 
have noticed it.” 

“How did you know that he had been to see me?” 

His thin hard face softened in a smile. 

“Who else would he have come to see?” 

“ Beryl,” she answered promptly and he looked surprised. 

“Beryl? I know nothing of how he felt in that quarter. 
Beryl! How remarkable! I knew he would come here; if 


312 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


you had told me that you had not seen him, I should have 
thought I was — ” 

She nodded. 

“That is how I felt, Sir John. I had to shake myself 
hard. It was like the kind of dream one has where you 
see somebody you know with somebody else’s face. Yes, 
he came here. I had to have a glass of water.” 

“/ had brandy,” said Sir John gravely. “As a rule I 
avoid stimulants — brandy produces a distressing palpita- 
tion of heart. Perhaps water would have been better for 
me. That is all, I think. Miss Christina,” he picked up 
his hat. “ I had to see you.” 

“Do you think anybody knows or ought to know?” she 
asked. 

It was the question that had disturbed her. 

“They must find out. I have a reputation for being a 
hard-headed Scotsman. Why the heads of Scotsmen should 
be harder than any other kinds of heads I do not know. 
What I mean is, that I cannot risk my credit as a man of 
truth or my judgment as a man of law or my status as 
one capable of conducting his own affairs without the 
assistance of a Commissioner in Lunacy — people must 
find out. I think they will, the interested people. Beryl 
you say? Was he — fond of her? How astounding! She 
is to be married very soon, you know that?” 

“ Should she be told — she may not have an opportunity 
of discovering for herself. Sir John?” 

“What can you tell her?” he asked bluntly. 

She was silent. She had been asking herself that. 

Having ushered the visitor from the premises, Mrs. 
Colebrook joined her daughter, for immediately following 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


313 


Sir John had come a grimy little boy with a grimy little 
package. Mrs. Colebrook had spent an ecstatic five minutes 
in her kitchen revelling in the fruits of authorship. 

“ I’ve got something to show you, Christina,” she held 
the something coyly under her apron. “ It was my own 
idea — I didn’t expect them so soon — came just after 
I’d left you and Sir What’s-his-name.” 

“What is it, mother?” 

Mrs. Colebrook drew from its place of concealment a 
double-leafed card. It was edged with black and heavy 
black Gothic type was its most conspicuous feature. 
Christina read: 

In loving memory of Ambrose Sault, 

Who departed this life on March 17, 19 — 
at the age of fifty-three 
Mourned by all who knew him 

** We ne’er shall see his gentle smile. 

Or hear his voice again. 

Yet in a very little while, 

We’ll meet him once again.” 

Christina put down the card. 

“ I made that up myself,” said Mrs. Colebrook proudly, 
“all except the poetry, which I copied from poor Aunt 
Elizabeth’s funeral card. I think that verse is beautiful.” 

“I think it is prophetic,” said Christina, and added 
inconsequently, as Mrs. Colebrook thought, “ I wonder 
if Ronnie is coming today?” 


VIII 


Ronnie had some such idea when he parted from 
Maxton and the doctor. He went home to collect the 
bundle of books he had packed ready to take to Christina, 
and there discovered the reason why his absent-minded 
host had forgotten to put in an appearance. 

Mr. Jerry Talbot was stretched exhaustedly in a lounge 
chair. He was a sallow young man with a large nose 
and a microscopic moustache. He had bushy eyebrows, 
arched enquiringly. Only one eyebrow was now visible, 
the other and the greater part of his slick head was hidden 
under black silk bandages. Looking at him, Ronnie won- 
dered what he had ever seen in the man. 

“ ’Lo, Ronnie,” he greeted the other feebly, “ I tried to 
’phone you but you were gone. I had a sort of faint after 
I spoke to you this morning, that’s why I didn’t turn up; 
so sorry. But look at me, old boy, look at me!” 

“How did this happen?” asked Ronnie. 

“Lola!” 

Ronnie frowned. Lola? Who — ? Yes, yes, Lola. He 
remembered. 

“ We had rather a hot time at my house last night, and 
Madame sent some of the girls along. Lola got tight and 
after some argument about a brooch that one of my guests 
had lost, Lola picked up a champagne bottle and — there 
you are!” 

“Where is she?” 


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315 


“ In quod,” said Mr. Jerry Talbot viciously. “ I gave 
her in charge, and, Ronnie, she had the brooch ! They found 
it at the police station. So I was right when I called her 
a thieving little — whatever it was I called her. It is an 
awkward business for me, old thing, but of course I’m 
swearing blue-blind that I never invited her and that she 
came in without — sort of drifted in from the street. 
Madame put me up to that. She’s fed up with Lola and 
so are the other girls.” 

“Just wait a moment,” said Ronnie frowning, “do I 
understand that Madame is going to disown this girl, this, 
what is her name — ?” 

“Lola,” scoffed Mr. Talbot, “good heavens, you’re not 
pretending that you don’t know her! And you took her 
to Wechester with you — ” 

“Yes, of course I did,” agreed Ronnie. “It is rather 
terrible work — straightening out the ravel of life — yes, 
I know her.” 

“Madame is disowning her, and so are the other girls. 
Between ourselves, Ritti has cleared out everything of 
Lola’s and sent her trunks to a baggage office. None of her 
maids will talk, and naturally, none of the people who go 
to Ritti’s. Lola has had a tip to shut up about Madame’s, 
and if she is wise, she’ll admit she’s a street girl who had 
the cheek to jvalk into the party. I had to tell you, Ronnie, 
in case this infernal girl mentions you. She is being 
brought before the magistrate this afternoon.” 

And so came Lola from the dingy cells with her evening 
finery looking somewhat bedraggled, and standing in the 
pen, pale and defiant, heard the charge of assault pre- 
ferred against her. 


316 


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“Have you any witnesses to call?” 

“None. All my witnesses have been standing on the 
box committing perjury,” sobbed the girl, broken at last, 

“I was invited. Mr. Talbot sent for me — he sent to 
Madame Ritti’s — ” 

“Madame Ritti says that she hardly knows you. That 
with the exception of a few days last year, when you were 
staying with her, you have never been to the house,” said 
the patient magistrate. “ She made you leave her, because 
she found you were an undesirable.” 

“Your worship, there is a gentleman here who wishes 
to give evidence,” said the usher. 

Ronald Morelle stepped to the stand, smiled faintly at 
the open-mouthed surprise of Jerry Talbot, at the shocked 
amazement of Madame Ritti, and bowed to the magistrate. 

He gave his name, place of living, and occupation. 

“Now, Mr. Morelle, what can you tell us?” demanded 
the magistrate benevolently. 

“ I know this girl,” he indicated the interested prisoner, 
“her name is Lola Pranceaux, or rather, that is the name 
by which she is known. She is an inmate of a house,” he 
did not say “house,” and Madame Ritti almost jumped 
from her seat at his description, “maintained by Madame 
Ritti. I can also assure your worship that she is very 
well known to the prosecutor, Mr. Talbot, and to me. I 
have taken her away to the country on more than one 
occasion. To my knowledge she was invited last night to 
Mr. Talbot’s house. There is np reason why she should 
steal a trumpery brooch. She has jewels of her own. I 
myself gave her the solitaire ring she is now wearing.” 

The magistrate glared at Jerry Talbot. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


317 


“Are you pressing this charge?” 

“No — no, your honor — worship,” stammered Jerry. 

The man of law wrote furiously upon a paper. 

“You may go away, Pranceaux, you are discharged. I 
have heard a considerable amount of perjury in this case 
and I have heard the truth — not very pleasant truth, I 
admit. Mr. Morelle has testified for the accused with great 
frankness which I can admire. His habits and behavior 
are less admirable. Next case!” 

Ronnie was the last of the party to leave the court. Lola 
came hurriedly across the waiting room to clasp his hand. 

“Oh, Ronnie, you — pal! How lovely of you! I never 
thought you were such a brick! Madame looked like hell 
— she’s pinched all my jewelry and now she’ll have to give 
it up. Ronnie, how can I thank you?” 

“Lola — come to my flat, I want to talk to you.” 

Frangois who opened the door to them was not surprised. 
After all, one could not expect Ronald Morelle to improve 
in every respect. It was a pleasure to work for him, he 
was so considerate. Lola settled herself in the most com- 
fortable corner of the settee and waited for Frangois to go. 

“You will have some tea?” Ronnie gave the order to a 
servant who was no less surprised than Lola. 

“What have you done with that picture that was over 
the mantelpiece?” asked the girl, seeing a blankness of wall. 

“ I’ve burned it,” said Ronnie. 

“But it was worth thousands, Ronnie! You told me so.” 

“ It was worth a few hundreds. If it had been a Titian 
I would not have destroyed it — it had its use in a gallery. 
But it was not. Worth a few hundreds perhaps. I burned 
it. Frangois cut it into strips and we burned it in the fur- 


318 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


nace fire. Francois and I had a great day. He did not 
think the picture was pretty.” 

“It was your favorite?” 

“ JFas it?” He was astonished. “Well, it is burned 
It was too ugly. The subject — no the figures were a little 
ugly. Now, Lola, what are you going to do?” 

She had half made up her mind. 

“I shall take aflat — ” 

He shook his head. 

“ In a way, I have a recollection that you told me you 
had relations in Cornwall. Was I dreaming? And you 
said that when you had saved enough money you were 
going to buy a farm in Cornwall and raise hackneys. Was 
that a dream?” 

She shook her head. 

“ No, that is my dream,” she said, “ but what is the use 
of talking about that, Ronnie. It would cost a small for- 
tune.” 

“ Could you do it on five thousand?” he asked. 

“ With my money and five thousand — yes.” 

“ I will lend you three thousand free of all interest, and 
I will give you two thousand. I won’t give it all to you, 
because I want a hold on you. Easy money spends itself. 
Will you go to Cornwall, Lola?” 

Francois, entering, saved him from her hectic embrace. 

“You’re just — wonderful,” she dabbed her eyes. “I 
know you think I’m dirt and I am — ” 

“ Don’t be silly. Why should I think that? I am not 
even sorry for you. Are you sorry for the train that is 
derailed? You put it back on the track. That is what I 
am doing. I am one of the derailers. It amused me, it 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


319 


hurt you — oh, yes, it did. I know I was not ‘the first’, 
there would be an excuse for me in that event. We are all 
dirt if it comes to that — dirt is matter in the wrong place. 
I want to put you where you belong.” 

She was incoherent in her gratitude, awed a little by his 
seriousness and detachment, prodigiously surprised that 
Frangois remained on duty. 

When on her way to the hotel which was to shelter her, 
she read the evening newspaper, she could appreciate more 
fully just what Ronnie had done. 

“Read this!” said Evie tragically. 

Christina took the newspaper from her hands. 

“‘A curious case’ — is that what you mean?” 

The report was a full one, remembering how late in the 
day the charge had come up for hearing. 

“Well?” said Christina, when she had finished reading. 

“ I shall write to Ronald.” Evie was very stiff, very 
determined, sourly virginal. “ Of course, you can’t believe 
all that you read in the newspapers, but there is no smoke 
without fire.” 

“And every cloud has its silver lining,” said Christina. 
“Let us all be trite! What is worrying you, Evie? I 
think it was fine of Ronnie to look after the girl.” 

“And they drove away from the court together!” wailed 
Evie. 

“Why not? It is much better to go together than by 
taking separate routes and pretending they weren’t meeting 
when all the time they were.” 

“ I shall write to Ronnie, I must have an explanation,” 
Evie was firm on this point. 

Christina read the account again. 


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“ I don’t see what other explanation you can ask,” she 
said. “ He has said all that is fit for publication.” 

“What is this woman Lola to him?” demanded Evie 
furiously. “ How dare he stand up — shamelessly — and 
admit — oh, Chris, it is awful!” 

“ It must be pretty awful for Lola, too,” said Christina. 

“That sort of girl doesn’t mind — she likes to have her 
beastly name in the paper.” 

“ You don’t know,” said Christina. “ I won’t descend to 
slopping over her poor mother, and her innocent sisters, 
and I’d die before I’d remind you that once she was like 
the beautiful snow. Ambrose always said that there was a 
lot of sympathy wasted over sinners. It is conceivable that 
she was quite a decent sort until somebody came along who 
held artistic views about marriag^; most of these girls start 
that way, their minds go first. They get full of that ad- 
vanced stuff. Some of ’em go vegetarian and wear sandals, 
some of ’em go on the streets. Generally speaking, the 
street girls are better fed. But that is how they start: they 
reach the streets in their own way. Some get into the studio 
party set. They bob their hair and hate washing. They 
know people who have black wallpaper and scarlet ceilings 
and one white rose rising from a jade vase. Evie, I have 
been laying on the flat of my back ever since I can remem- 
ber, and I’ve had a procession of sinners marching around 
my bed — literally. Mother let people come because I was 
dull. I don’t know Lola. She is a little above us, but 
Lola’s kind are bred around here by the score, pigging four 
and five in a room; they have no reticences, there are no 
mysteries. All the processes of life are familiar to them as 
children. Then one fine day along comes Mrs. So-and-So 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


321 


and sits on the end of this bed and weeps and weeps until 
mother turns her out. There was a woman in this road who 
broke her heart over her daughter’s disgrace. And when 
they came to bury the good lady they found she had never 
been married herself! All this weeping and wailing and 
talking about ‘ disgrace ’ doesn’t mean anything in this 
neighborhood. It is conventional, expected of them, like 
deep mourning for widows and half mourning for aunts. 
We haven’t produced many celebrities. We had a chorus 
girl who was in a divorce case, and there is a legend that 
Tota Belindo, the great Spanish dancer, came from this 
street. We turn out the tired old-looking girls that you 
never see up west. The Lolas come from families that care. 
Nice speaking people who haven’t been taught to write by 
a sign-writer. I’ve heard about them and met one. She 
used to drink, that is how she came to Walter Street. That 
kind of a girl only pretends she doesn’t care. She isn’t 
like the hardy race of prostitutes we raise in Walter Street.” 

“ I think your language is terrible, Christina 1 I ought to 
know you would defend this perfectly awful girl. You take 
a very lax view, Chris, it is a good thing I have a well- 
balanced mind — ” 

“ You haven’t,” said Christina. “ It isn’t a month ago 
that you were sneering about marriage. I believe in mar- 
riage: I’m old-fashioned. Marriage is a wonderful bridge; 
it carries you over the time when, if you’re not married, 
you are getting used to a strange man and comparing him 
unfavorably with your last. Besides, it is easier to divorce 
a man than to run away from him. Divorce is so easy that 
there is no excuse for remaining single.” 

“ I don’t know whether you’re being decent or not, Chris- 


322 


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tina. But there are some people who have never married 
all their lives, and they’ve been perfectly happy — of 
course, I can’t tell you who they are, it is absurd to ask me. 
Only I know that there have been such people — in history, 
I mean. I believe in marriage, hut it is much worse to be 
married to somebody you don’t love than to be living with 
a man you do love.” 

“There are times when you remind me of ‘Uncle Tom’s 
Cabin ’,” mused Christina. “ I wonder why — oh, yes, little 
Eva who said such damnably true things so very truly. She 
died. The book had to have a happy ending anyway. Eva 
— Evie, I mean, I should write to your slave master and 
demand an explanation. Fll bet you won’t, though!” 

“Won’t I?” Evie stiffened. “I have my self-respect to 
consider, Christina, and my friends. I hope Teddy hasn’t 
read the case.” 

She wrote a letter, many words of which were under- 
lined, and notes of exclamation stood up on each page like 
the masts of docked shipping. 

Ronnie’s answer was waiting for her next night. 

“Will you come to the flat, Evie?” 

Evie did not consult her sister; she took a lank young 
man into her confidence. Would he escort her and wait in 
the vestibule of the flats until she came out? Evie had 
discovered tlie need for a chaperon. 


IX 


Francois opened the door, and Evie walked hesitatingly 
into the lobby. 

Ronnie was at his table and he was writing. He got up 
at once and came to meet her with outstretched hand. 

“ It was good of you to come, Evie.” 

She started. His voice was so changed — his expression, 
too. Something had come into his face that was not there 
before. A vitality, an eagerness, a good humor. She was 
startled into beginning on a personal note. 

“Why, Ronnie, dear, you have changed!” 

She did not recognize how far she had departed from a 
certain program and agenda she had drawn up. Item 
number one was “ not to call Ronnie, ‘ dear ’.” 

“Have I?” He flashed a smile at her as he pushed a 
chair forward and put a cushion at her back. 

“Your voice even, have you had a cold?” 

“No. I am getting old,” he chuckled at the jest. Ronnie 
did not as a rule laugh at himself. “ I had your letter 
about Lola. I thought it best that you should come. Yes, 
Evie, all that was in the paper was true. I know Lola.” 

“And she has been — all that you said, to you?” 

“ Yes.” His voice was a little dreary. “ Yes — all that.” 

She sat tight-lipped, trying to feel more angry than she 
did, (“Be very angry” was item two on the agenda). 

“ I’m sorry that you had to know, you are so young and 

323 


324 


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these things are very shocking to a good woman. Lola has 
gone back to her people. Naturally, I did not wish to 
appear in a police court, but there was a conspiracy to send 
this girl to prison. A late friend of mine was in it. I had 
to go to the court and tell the truth.” 

“ I think it was very fine of you,” she echoed Christina’s 
words, but was wanting in Christina’s enthusiasm. 

“ Fine? I don’t know. It was a great nuisance. I have 
an unpleasant feeling about courts.” 

He rubbed his chin; Evie saw nothing remarkable in the 
gesture. 

“Of course, Ronnie,” she began, laboring under the 
disadvantage of calmness, for she could not feel angry, 
“this makes a difference. I was prepared to sacrifice 
everything — my good name and what people thought about 
me — it was horrible of you, Ronnie — to take that girl 
into the country when — when you knew me. I can’t for- 
give that, Ronnie.” 

He stood by his table, his white hand drumming silently. 

“Did you come alone?” he asked. 

She hesitated. 

“ No, I brought a friend. A gentleman. I used to know 
him when I was a child.” 

Ronnie looked at her searchingly. His eyes were soft 
and kind. 

“Evie, I will tell you something. From the day I first 
met you I intended no good to you. When I arranged that 
we should go to Italy, to Palermo, I knew in my wicked 
mind that you would grow tired of me.” 

He put it that way, though he was loath to tell even so 
small a lie. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


325 


“ Since — since I saw you last, I have been thinking of 
you, thinking very tenderly of you, Evie. I have always 
liked you; Christina and I have discussed you by the 
hour — ” 

“But you have never seen Christina until this week, 
Ronnie ! ” 

Ronnie’s hand went to his chin. 

“Haven’t I?” He was troubled. “I thought — let me 
say I have dreamed of these discussions. I dream a great 
deal nowadays. Queer ugly dreams. I woke this morning 
when the clock was striking nine — I felt so sad.” 

He seemed to forget her presence, for he did not speak 
for a time. He had seated himself on the edge of the desk, 
one polished boot swinging, and he was looking past her 
with an intensity of gaze that made her turn to see the thing 
that attracted him. 

Her movement roused him, and he stammered his apol- 
ogies. 

Taking courage from his confusion, Evie delivered her- 
self of the predication which she had not had the courage 
to rehearse. 

“Ronnie, I think we’ve both made a great mistake. I 
like you awfully. I don’t think I could like a friend more. 
But I don’t feel — well, you can see for yourself that we’re 
not the same way of thinking. Don’t imagine I’m a prude. 
I’m very broad-minded about that sort of thing, hut you 
can see for yourself — ” 

He saw very clearly for himself and held out his hand. 

“Friends?” he asked. 

She experienced a thrill of one who creditably performs 
a great renunciation without any distress to herself. 


326 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“Friends!” she said solemnly. 

Ronnie walked round to his writing chair and sat down. 
She found satisfaction in the tremor of the hand that opened 
a portfolio on his desk. 

“And you’re not hurt?” he asked anxiously. 

“No, Ronnie.” 

“Thank God for that,” said Ronald Morelle. He was 
looking in the black case: presently he pulled out half a 
dozen photographs and passed them across to her. 

“How perfectly lovely!” she said. 

“Yes; in some respects more lovely than Palermo. And 
there are no earthquakes and no rumblings from old Etna.” 

She was looking at the photographs of a white villa that 
seemed to be built on the side of a hill. One picture showed 
a riotous garden, another a lawn with great shady trees and 
deep basket chairs. 

“That is my house at Beaulieu,” said Ronnie, “I want 
you to help me with that.” 

She looked at him, ready to reprove. 

“Your mother is the very woman to run that house and 
the garden was made for Christina.” 

Her mouth opened. 

“Not you!” she gasped, “you aren’t the man who wants 
a housekeeper. Oh, Ronnie!” 

“ I haven’t photographs of the Palermo villa. I have sent 
for some. An ideal place for a honeymoon, Evie.” 

He came round to the back of her chair and dropped his 
hand on her shoulder lightly. 

“When you marry a nice man, you shall go there for 
your honeymoon. God love you!” 

She took his hand and laid it against her cheek. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


327 


For the fraction of a second — 

“ I like Beaulieu, Ronnie, the house is a beauty — per- 
haps if I hurried I could go there before mother.” 

In the hall below Mr. Teddy Williams discussed Canada 
with the hall porter. It was one of the two subjects in 
which he was completely interested. 

The other came down by the elevator, importantly, and 
they went out into Knightsbridge together. 

“ I’ve been a long time, Teddy,” she snuggled her arm 
in his, “but — well, first of all, my answer is ‘Yes’.” 

He paused, and in the view of revolted passersby, kissed 
her. 

“And — and, Teddy, we’ll go to Beaulieu afterwards. 
Mr. Morelle has promised to let us have his house.” 

“Isn’t that grand!” said Teddy. “We’ve got a town 
called Beaulieu in Saskatchewan.” 


X 


“Wasn’t it just like Christina not to get excited with the 
great news? But really Evie was to blame, because she 
kept the greater news to the last. 

“I can’t believe it. That young man who called on 
Christina? I really can’t believe it,” said Mrs. Colebrook, 
who could, and did, believe it. 

“Why don’t you yell, Chris!” demanded her indignant 
sister. 

“ I am yelling,” said Christina placidly. “ I’ve been 
yelling longer than you, for I knew that it was Ronnie’s 
house when the letter came.” 

But the announcement of Evie’s engagement had an elec- 
trifying effect. 

“That is the first time I have ever seen Christina cry,” 
said Mrs. Colebrook with melancholy satisfaction. “ There’s 
a lot more in Christina than people think. If she’d only 
showed a little more nice feeling over poor Mr. Sault, I’d 
have liked it better. But you can’t expect everything in 
these days, girls being what they are. Well, Evie, you’re 
the first to go. I don’t suppose Christina will ever marry. 
She’s too hard. Canada won’t seem so far if I’m in Bolo, 
Boole — whatever they call it.” 

Evie was sitting with her mother in the kitchen; from 
Christina’s room came crooning. 

328 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


329 


“My dear, oh my dear, 

Have ye come from the west — ” 

“Why Christina sings those old-fashioned songs when 
she knows ‘ Swanee ’ and ‘ The Bull Dog Patrol ’ — ‘ Bull 
Frog’, is it? — I can’t understand.” 

A rat-tat at the door made Evie jump. 

Mrs. Colebrook’s eyes went to the faded face of a clock 
on the mantelshelf. Allowing for day to day variation, to 
which the timepiece was subject, she made it out to be past 
eleven. 

“ Don’t open the door,” she said. “ It may be those 
Haggins; they’ve been fighting all day.” 

Evie went to the door. 

“Who is there?” 

“Beryl Merville.” 

Evie opened the door and admitted the girl. Outside 
she glimpsed the tail lamps of a car. 

“You are Evie, aren’t you?” Beryl was breathless. 
“Have you any idea where I can find Ronnie?” 

“ Is that Beryl?” 

It was Christina’s voice; she came down in her dressing 
gown. 

“ I want to find Ronnie — I have been to his flat, he is 
not at home. I must see him.” 

She was wild with fear, Christina saw that; something 
had happened which had thrown her off her balance and 
had driven her, frantic, to Ronnie Morelle. 

“ Come up to my room. Beryl,” she said gently. 

Mrs. Colebrook looked at Evie as the sound of a closing 
door came down. 

“ It looks to me like a scandal,” she said profoundly. 


330 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


Evie said nothing. She was wondering whether she 
ought not to have been indignant at the suggestion that she 
knew the whereabouts of Ronnie Morelle. She wished she 
knew Beryl better — then she might have been asked up- 
stairs to share the secret. After all, she knew Ronnie better 
than anybody. 

“Perhaps I am better out of it, Mother,” she said. “I 
am not sure that Teddy would like me to be mixed up in 
other people’s affairs.” 

Christina pushed the trembling girl on to the bed. 

“ Sit down. Beryl. What is wrong?” 

Beryl’s lips were quivering. 

“I must see Ronnie — oh, Christina, I’m just cornered. 
That man — Talbot, I think his name is, he is a friend of 
Ronnie’s, has written to father — the letter came by hand, 
marked ‘ Urgent ’, whilst daddy was out, and I opened it.” 

She fumbled in her bag and produced a folded sheet and 
Christina read: 

“Dear Dr. Merville: I think it is only right that you 
should know that your daughter spent a night at Ronald 
Morelle’s flat. 

Miss Merville, at Morelle’s suggestion, told you that she 
had been to a ball at Albert Hall. I can prove that she 
was never at the Albert Hall that night. I feel it is my 
duty to tell you this, and I expect you to inform Mr. Steppe., 
who, I understand, is engaged to your daughter.” 

“How did he know?” 

Beryl shook her head wearily. 

“Ronald told him — about the ball. When the elevator 
was going down, the morning I left the flat, I saw a man 
walking up the stairs. He must have seen me. Ronnie told 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


331 


me the night before that Jeremiah Talbot was coming to 
breakfast with him. I just saw him as the lift passed him 
— he had stopped on the landing below Ronnie’s and 
probably recognized me. Christina, what am I to do? 
Father mustn’t know. It seems ever so much more im- 
portant to me now.” 

“When do you marry, Beryl?” 

“ The day after tomorrow. I know Ronnie has quarreled 
with this man. I read that story in the newspapers. It was 
splendid of Ronnie, splendid. It was a revelation to me.” 

Christina bit her lip in thought. 

“I will see Ronnie — tonight. No, I will go alone. I 
have been resting all day. You must go home. Have you 
brought your car? Good. I will borrow it. Give me the 
letter.” 

Beryl protested, hut the girl was firm. 

“You must not go — perhaps I am wrong about Ronnie, 
but I don’t think so. Sir John Maxton has the same mad 
dream.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Christina smiled. “One day I will tell you.” 

The vision of her daughter dressed for going out tem- 
porarily deprived Mrs. Colebrook of speech. Before she 
could frame adequate comment, Christina was gone. 

She dropped Beryl at her house and drove to Knights- 
bridge. The porter was not sure whether Mr. Morelle was 
in or out. It was his duty to be uncertain. He took her 
up to Ronnie’s floor and waited until the door opened. 

“My dear, what brings you here at this hour?” 

He had been out, he told her. A Royal Society lecture 
on Einstein’s Theory had been absorbing. He was so full 


332 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


of the subject, so alive, so boyish in his interest that for 
a while he forgot the hour and the obvious urgency of her 
call. 

“ I love lectures,” he laughed, “ but you know that. Do 
you remember how I was so late last night that your mother 
locked me out- — no, not your mother — it must have been 
Francois.” He frowned heavily. “How curious that I 
should confuse Francois with your dear mother.” 

She listened eagerly, delightedly, forgetting, too, the 
matter that brought her. The phenomenon had no terror 
for her, tremendous though it was. He was the first to 
recall himself to the present. 

“From Beryl?” he said quickly, “what is wrong?” 

She handed him the letter and he read it carefully. 

“How terrible!” he said in a hushed voice, “how appal- 
lingly terrible! He says she is marrying Steppe! That 
can’t be true, either. It would be grotesque — ” 

She was on the point of telling him that the marriage 
was due for the second day, when he went abruptly into 
his room. He returned, carrying his overcoat, which he 
put on as he talked. 

“The past can only be patched,” he said, “and seldom 
patched to look like new. Omar crystallizes its irrevoca- 
bility in his great stanza. We can no more ‘shatter it to 
bits,’ than ‘ remould it nearer to our heart’s desire.’ ” 

“ Ronnie, Beryl is to be married the day after tomorrow.” 

“Indeed?” 

He looked at her with a half smile and then at the clock. 
It was a minute past midnight. 

“ Tomorrow?” 

She nodded. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


333 


“Where are you going?” 

“ To see Talbot. He acted according to his lights. You 
can’t expect a cockerel to sing like a lark. There is no 
sense in getting angry because things do not behave un- 
naturally. I made him feel very badly toward me yesterday. 
I think he can be adjusted. Some problems can be solved: 
some must be scrapped. Have you a car — Beryl’s — good. 
Will you drop me in Curzon Street?” 

She asked him no further questions and when in the car 
he held her hand in his, she felt beautifully peaceful and 
content. 

“Good night, Christina. I will see Beryl tomorrow.” 

He closed the car door softly and she saw him knocking 
at No. 703 as she drove away. 

The door was opened almost immediately. 

“ Is Mr. Talbot in, Brien?” 

The butler stared. 

“Why — why, yes, Mr. Morelle,” he stammered. 

He had not waited at table these past two days without 
discovering that Ronald Morelle was a name to be men- 
tioned to the accompaniment of blasphemous et ceteras. 

“He is in bed. I was just locking up. Does he expect 
you, Mr. Morelle?” 

“No,” said Ronnie. “All right, Brien, I know my way 

up.” 

He left an apprehensive servant standing irresolutely in 
the hall. 

Jeremiah was not in bed. He was in his dressing gown 
before a mirror and his face was mottled with patches of 
gray mud — a cosmetic designed to remove wrinkles from 
tired eyes. 


334 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


Ronnie he saw reflected in the mirror. 

“What — what the devil do you want?” he demanded 
hollowly. “What are you doing?” 

“Locking the door,” said Ronnie, and threw the key on 
to the pillow of a four-poster bed. 

“Damn you — open that door — you sneaking cad!” 

Mr. Talbot experienced a difficulty in breathing, his voice 
was a little beyond his control. Also the plaster at the 
corner of his mouth made articulation difficult. 

“ Pve come to see you on rather a pressing matter,” said 
Ronnie evenly. “ You wrote a letter to Dr. Merville making 
a very serious charge against my friend. Miss Merville. I 
do not complain and I certainly do not intend abusing you. 
I may kill you: that is very likely. I hope it will not be 
necessary. If you shout or make a noise, I shall certainly 
kill you, because, as you will see, being an intelligent man, 
I cannot afford to let you live until your servants come.” 

Mr. Talbot sat down suddenly, a comical figure, the more 
so since the dried mud about his eyes and the comer of his 
mouth made it impossible that he should express his intense 
fear. As it was, he spoke with difficulty and without opening 
his mouth wider than the mud allowed. 

“You shall pay for thish, Morelle — vy God!” 

“ I want you to write me a letter which I shall give to 
Miss Merville apologizing for your insulting note to the 
doctor — ” 

With a gurgle of rage, Talbot sprang at him. Ronnie 
half turned and struck twice. 

The butler heard the thud of a falling body; it shook 
the house. Still he hesitated. 

“ Get up,” said Ronnie. “ I eim afraid I have dislocated 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


335 


your beauty spots, Jerry, but you’ll be able to talk more 
freely.” 

Mr. Talbot nursed his jaw, but continued to sit on the 
floor. His jaw was aching and his head was going round 
and round. But he was an intelligent man. 

When he did get up he opened a writing bureau and, 
at Ronnie’s dictation, wrote. 

“Thank you, Jerry,” Ronnie pocketed the letter. “Per- 
haps when I have gone you will regret having written and 
will complain to the police; you may even write a worse 
letter to the doctor — who hasn’t seen your first epistle, by 
the way. I must risk that. If you do, I shall certainly 
destroy you. I shall be sorry because — well, because I 
don’t think you deserve death. You can be adjusted. Most 
people can. Will you put a stamp on the envelope, Jerry?” 

At the street door: “Perhaps you will lose your job 
because you have admitted me, Brien. If that happens, will 
you come to me, please?” 

The dazed butler said he would, 

Ronnie stopped at a pillar box to post the letter and 
walked home. 


XI 


Jan Steppe was an early riser. He was up at six; at 
seven o’clock he was at his desk with the contents of the 
morning newspapers completely digested. By the time most 
people were sleepily inquiring the state of the weather, he 
had dealt with his correspondence and had prepared his 
daily plan. 

In view of his early departure from London he had 
cleared off such arrears of work as there was. It was very 
little, for his method did not admit of an accumulation of 
unsettled affairs. A man not easily troubled, he had been 
of late considerably perturbed by the erratic behavior of 
certain stocks. He had every reason to be satisfied on the 
whole, because a miracle had happened. Klein River Dia- 
monds had soared to an unbelievable price. A new pipe 
had been discovered on the property and the shares had 
jumped to one hundred and twelve, which would have been 
a fortunate development for Dr. Merville who once held a 
large parcel, had not Steppe purchased his entire holding 
at fifteen. He did this before the news was made public 
that the pipe had been located. Before Steppe himself 
knew — as he swore, sitting within a yard of the code 
telegram from his South African agent that had brought 
him the news twenty-four hours before it was published. 
So that the doctor was in this position; he owed money to 
Steppe for shares which had made Steppe a profit. 

336 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


337 


Ronnie had had a large holding. He was deputy chair- 
man of the company. The day following the execution of 
Ambrose Sault, Steppe sent him a peremptory note enclos- 
ing a transfer and a cheque. Ronnie put cheque and trans- 
fer away in a drawer and did not read the letter. For some 
extraordinary reason on that day he could not read easily. 
Letters frightened him and he had to summon all his will 
power to examine them. Nearly a week passed before he 
got over this strange repugnance to the written word. 

In the meantime Jan Steppe had not seen his lieutenant. 
He never doubted that the transfer, signed and sealed, was 
registered in the books of the company. Ronnie was 
obedient: had signed transfers by the score without question. 

On this morning of March, Mr. Steppe was delayed in 
the conduct of his business by the tardy arrival of the mail. 
There had been a heavy fog in the early hours and letter 
distribution had been delayed, so that it was well after half- 
past eight before the mail came to him. 

Almost the first letter he opened was one from the sec- 
retary of Klein River. He read and growled. The writer 
was sorry that he could not carry out the definite instruc- 
tions which he had received. Apparently Mr. Steppe was 
under a misapprehension. No shares held by Mr. Morelle 
had been transferred. There was a postscript in the sec- 
retary’s handwriting: 

“ I have reason to believe that Mr. Morelle has been sell- 
ing your stocks very heavily. He is certainly the principal 
operator in the attack upon Midwell Tractions which you 
complained about yesterday.” 

Jan Steppe, dropping the letter, pushed his chair back 


338 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


from the desk. A thousand shares in Klein River were at 
issue, he could not afford to tear bullheaded at Ronnie 
Morelle. So this was the bear — the seller of stock! 
Ronnie had done something like this before, and had been 
warned. Steppe let his fury cool before he got Merville 
on the wire. When, in answer to the summons, Merville 
arrived. Steppe was pacing the floor, his hands deep in his 
trousers pockets. 

“Huh, Merville? Seen Ronald Morelle lately?” 

“ No : he hasn’t been to the house for a very long time.’’ 

“Hasn’t, huh? Like him?” 

The doctor hesitated. 

“Not particularly: he is a distant cousin of mine. You 
know that.” 

Steppe nodded. He was holding himself in check and 
the effort was a strain. 

“He’s selling Midwell Tractions: you know that?” he 
mimicked savagely. “I’ll break him, Merville! Smash 
him! The cur, the crafty cur!” 

He gained the upper hand of his tumultuous rage after 
a while. 

“ That doesn’t matter. But I sent him a cheque and a 
transfer — one minute ! ” 

He seized the telephone and shouted a number. 

“ Yes, Steppe. Has a cheque been passed through pay- 
able to Ronald Morelle — I’ll give you the number if you 
wait.” 

He jerked out a drawer, found the stub of a cheque hook 
and turned the counterfoil. 

“There? March seventeenth. Cheque number L. V. 

971842.” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


339 


He waited at the telephone, scowling absentmindedly at 
the doctor. 

“Huh? It hasn’t been presented — all right.” 

He smashed the receiver down on the hook. 

“ If he had paid in the cheque I would have got him — 
the swine! But he hasn’t. I sent orders to transfer his 
Klein Rivers. I thought I was doing him a good turn — 
just as I thought I was doing one for you, Merville.” 

“And he refused to allow you to make the sacrifice,” 
said the doctor drily. 

“ I don’t like that kind of talk, Merville,” Steppe’s face 
was dark with anger. “ I want you to come with me. I’m 
going to see this — this thing. And I’m going to get the 
transfer I Make no mistake about that ! Call up the filthy 
hound and tell him you are coming round. Don’t mention 
me. It will give him a chance of getting rid of his women.” 

He listened to the telephone conversation that followed. 

“What was he saying?” 

“He asked me if there was anything wrong. It struck 
me that he was anxious — he asked me twice.” 

“That fellow has an instinct for trouble,” said Steppe. 

Ronnie was dressed, which was unusual for him, at this 
early hour. And the doctor noticed, could hardly help 
noticing, that the library was gay with flowers. This also 
was remarkable, for Ronnie disliked to have flowers in a 
room. There were daffodils, pierce-niege, bowls of violets, 
and through the open casement with its curtains fluttering 
in the stiff breeze, Merville saw new window boxes ablaze 
with tulips. 

“You’re admiring my flowers, Bertram,” smiled Ronnie. 
“ I had to buy them ready-grown and the gentleman who 


340 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


owns the flat has misgivings as to the wisdom of flower 
boxes — he thinks they may fall on to somebody’s head. 
Good morning, Steppe, you look happy.” 

Mr. Steppe was looking and feeling quite the reverse. 
He forced his face into a contortion intended to be a smile. 

“ Good morning, Ronnie. I thought I’d come along and 
see you about the transfer I sent to you. You forgot to 
fill it up.” 

“Did I?” Ronnie was genuinely surprised. “I remem- 
ber I had a letter from you — ” 

He took a heap of papers from a drawer and as he 
turned them over. Steppe’s eyes lit up. 

“That’s it,” he said, and offhandedly, “put your name 
against the seal.” 

Ronnie took up a pen — and paused. 

“ I am transferring a thousand shares in the Klein River 
Diamond Mining Corporation — at twelve. They are worth 
more than that surely? I thought I saw them quoted at a 
hundred and something?” 

“They were twelve when I sent you the transfer,” said 
Steppe. 

“Why did you send it? I don’t remember expressing a 
wish to sell.” 

Here Steppe made a fatal mistake. He had but to say, 
“You agreed to sell,” and Ronnie would have signed. There 
were some incidents in his past life that he could not remem- 
ber. But the temper of the big man got the better of him. 

“You’re not expected to ask!” he roared, bringing his 
big fist down on the table with a crash. “You’re expected 
to do as you’re told! Get that, Morelle! I sent you the 
transfer and a cheque — ” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


341 


“This must be the cheque,” said Ronnie. He looked at 
the oblong slip and tore it into four pieces before he 
dropped the scraps into the waste basket. 

Steppe was purple with rage, inarticulate. 

Then the transfer followed the cheque. 

“ Don’t let us have a scene,” said Dr. Merville nervously. 
“ You must meet Steppe in this, Ronnie.” 

“ I’ll meet him with pleasure. I have a thousand shares 
apparently; he wants them — good! He can pay me the 
market price.” 

“You dog!” howled Steppe, his face thrust across the 
table until it was within a few inches of Ronnie’s, “you 
damned swindler! You’re going straight to the ofi&ce of 
the Klein River Company and sign another transfer. D’ye 
hear?” 

“ How could I not hear,” said Ronnie, getting up, “ as 
to signing the transfer, I will do so, on terms — if you are 
civil.” 

“If I’m civil, huh? If I’m civil! I’ll break you, 
Morelle! I’ll break you! There’s a little document in 
my safe that would get you five years. That makes you 
look foolish!” 

“ Take it out of your safe,” said Ronnie coolly, “ which I 
understand the police have. They will be glad to see it 
opened. I could open it myself if — if I could only re- 
member. I’ve tried. When I saw a paragraph in the paper 
about Moropulos, it made me shiver — because I knew I 
could open the safe. I sat up all one night trying to get 
the word.” 

“You’re a liar — the same damned liar that you’ve 
always been! I want that transfer, Morelle. I’m through 


342 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


with you — after your appearance in the police court. 
You’re a damned fine asset to a company! You and your 
Lola! You will resign from the board of my companies. 
Get that! And whilst I’m dealing with you, I’d like to tell 
you that if you attack my stocks, I’ll attack you in a way 
that will make hell a cosy corner, huh?” 

His hand shot out and he gripped Ronnie. 

“ Come h^re — you ! D’ye hear me. I’ll — ” 

Ronnie took the hand that grasped his collar and pried 
loose the fingers; he did this without apparent effort. The 
fingers had to release their hold or be broken. Then with 
a twist of his wrist he flung the hand away. 

“ Don’t do that, please,” he said calmly. 

Steppe stood panting, grimacing — afraid. Merville felt 
the fear before he saw its evidence. 

“How did you do that?” panted Steppe. It was the 
resentful curiosity of the beaten animal. 

Ronnie opened his mouth and laughed long and joyously. 
He was, thought the doctor, like a boy conjuror who had 
mystified his elders and was enjoying the joke of it. Then, 
without warning, he became serious again and pressed a 
bell on his table. 

“Frangois, open the door — must you go, Bertram? I 
wanted to see you rather pressingly. Steppe can find his 
way home, can’t you. Steppe? One can’t imagine him 
getting lost — and he can ask a policeman.” 

“ I’ll settle with you later, Morelle. Come on, Merville.” 

The doctor vacillated. 

“ Come on ! ” roared Steppe. 

“ I’ll see you this afternoon. I have an engagement 
now.” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


343 


Merville went hastily after the big man. Ronnie fol- 
lowed, overtaking them as they were getting into the 
elevator. 

“Will you tell Beryl that I am coming to see her 
tonight?” 

“She’ll not see you!” exploded Steppe, “no decent 
woman would see you — ” 

“What an ape you are!” said Ronnie reproachfully, 
“ don’t you realize that I’m not talking to you?” 


XII 

Jan Steppe’s solitary lunch was served at midday, an 
hour which ensured his solitude, for he was a man who 
liked his meals alone. He was nearing the finish of his 
repast, his enormous appetite unimpaired by his unhappy 
experience of the morning, when two men mounted the 
steps of his Berkeley Square residence. They were unknown 
to one another; one had walked, the other had descended 
from a taxi, and they stood aside politely. 

“You are first, sir,” said the taller and healthier of 
the two. 

Their cards went in to Jan Steppe together. He saw 
the tall man first, jumping up from the table and wiping 
his fingers on his serviette. 

“In the library, huh?” 

He looked at himself in the glass, pulled his cravat 
straight, and smoothed his black hair before he made his 
way to where the tall man, hat in hand, was waiting his 
pleasure. 

“Well, inspector, what do you want?” 

Steppe jerked open the lid of a box and presented its 
contents for approval. 

“Thank you, sir,” the inspector of police chose a cigar 
with care. “ It is about this Traction Company of your 
344 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


345 


friend’s — I think I remember you saying that you were 
not in the flotation yourself?” 

“No — I bought shares. I have a large number. What 
about it?” 

“ Well, sir,” said the inspector, speaking slowly, “ I 
am afraid that matters are very serious — very serious 
indeed. The Public Prosecutor has taken action and a 
warrant has been issued.” 

Steppe was prepared for this. 

“Have you the warrant?” 

The officer nodded. 

“Can it be put off until tomorrow?” 

“Absolutely impossible, sir. The best I can do is to 
defer its execution until late tonight. Even then I am taking 
a risk.” 

Steppe tugged at his little beard. 

“ Make it tonight,” he said, “ I’ll undertake that he 
doesn’t leave the country — you won’t let him know, of 
course?” 

“No, sir.” 

If Steppe had offered as much money as he could com- 
mand to secure the escape of his victim, the bribe would 
have been rejected. But a postponement of arrest — that 
was another matter. 

“Thank you, inspector.” 

“Thank you, sir; I shall put a couple of men on to 
watch him. I must do that, he will never know.” 

Steppe went back to the dining room very much occupied. 

“No, I can’t see anybody else — order the car. Who 
is he?” 

He took up the second card. 


346 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“ Mr. Jeremiah Talbot.” 

The man who was concerned in the case where Ronald 
Morelle had figured so ingloriously. Perhaps he could 
tell him something about Ronnie? Something to his further 
discredit. 

“ Bring him in,” and when the dapper Mr. Talbot 
appeared : “ I can give you two minutes, Mr. — er — 
Talbot.” 

“ IVe come from a sense of duty,” began the injured 
Jeremiah. “ I’m certainly not going to be intimidated by 
threats from a beast like Ronald Morelle — ” 

Steppe cut him short. 

“ Is it about Ronald Morelle? I haven’t time to go into 
your quarrels.” 

“It is about Ronnie — and Beryl Merville.” 

Jan Steppe gazed at the man moodily, then into the fire 
— then back to Jeremiah Talbot. 

“ Sit down,” he said. “ Now — ” 

Talbot told his story plainly and without trimmings, 
save that his hatred of Ronnie led him to digress from 
time to time. 

“You saw; you are certain?” 

“Absolutely, I ran down the stairs. There was a fellow 
taking photographs outside, a man with a brown beard — ” 

Moropulos! And the photograph was that of Beryl 
Merville! 

“Go on.” 

“That is all. I felt it my duty to tell you. If Ronald 
Morelle attempts to browbeat me. I’ll give him in charge — ” 

“All right — you can go. Thank you.” 

Jan Steppe had his own peculiar views on women in 


7 


general, the relationship of Beryl with Ronnie Morelle in 
particular. Things of that kind happened. He had thought 
some such affair was possible, and was neither shocked nor 
outraged. Beryl did not love him, he knew: she loved 
Morelle. He grinned wickedly. 

“The car, sir.” 

His first call was at the registrar’s office. The special 
license had been secured a week before. 

“ I can marry you at half-past two,” said the registrar, 
“ we like a day’s notice, but in an exceptional case — ” 

Steppe paid. 

The Mervilles had not gone in to lunch when he arrived. 
Beryl was in her room, the doctor working in his study. 
Steppe wondered what he was working at. 

“ I want to see Miss Merville — don’t disturb the doctor.” 

She came down, a listless, hopeless girl. Intuitively she 
knew that he had been told. What would he do: she 
stopped at the door of her father’s study, fighting her fear. 
Should she tell him first? In the end she came to Steppe. 

“Well, Beryl. What is this I hear about Ronald Mor- 
elle and you, huh?” 

“What have you heard?” 

“That you’ve been his mistress — that’s what I’ve heard. 
Damned fine news for a bridegroom, huh? Does your 
father know?” 

She shook her head. 

“ Do you want him to know?” 

“I don’t care.” 

“You don’t care, huh? Got that way now, so that you 
don’t care. You’ll marry me this afternoon.” 

She looked up. 


i.AF^ 


“This afternoon?” 

“Yuh. You’d better tell the doctor; you can tell him 
anything else you like about Morelle — but if you don’t 
tell, I won’t.” 

Her hand had gone up to her cheek. 

“This afternoon — I can’t — give me a day — you said 
it would be tomorrow. I’m not ready.” 

“This afternoon at half past two. Will you tell tlie 
doctor, or shall I?” 

She was trying to think. 

“ I’ll tell him. As you wish. This afternoon.” 

Lunch went into the dining room. Nobody touched food. 
Steppe had to return to the house to get the wedding ring, 
send telegrams changing the date of his arrival in Paris, 
settle such minor details of household management as the 
change necessitated. 

He was at the registrar’s office when they came. Dr. 
Merville and the white-faced girl. In a cab behind the 
doctor’s car travelled two Scotland Yard detectives. 

The ceremony was simple. The repetition of a few 
sentences and Beryl Merville became Beryl Van Steppe. 
She did not know that his name was Van Steppe until 
she saw the marriage certificate. 

“ You can go home with your father. Be ready to leave 
by the boat train tonight.” 

So he dismissed her. All the way back to the house 
the doctor was talking, cheerfully, helpfully. She did 
not hear him. She was looking at the broad gold ring on 
her finger. 

As they were entering the house her father leaned back, 
and scrutinized the street. 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


349 


“Pm sure I’ve seen those two men before — weren’t 
they waiting outside the registrar’s, Beryl?” 

Beryl had seen only one man. A man with a black 
beard, a broad, swarthy face and two eyes wherein burned 
the fires of hell. 


XIII 


Evie brought the news at a run. She had been shopping 
with Teddy — the store had given her a holiday, and there 
was some talk of subscribing for a wedding present. 

“I said to Teddy, ‘let’s stop and see who it is’ — we 
knew it was somebody swagger by the two cars and the 
cab outside the door. And then I thought that I knew 
one of the cars. I said, ‘Teddy, I’ll bet it is Beryl Mer- 
ville ’ — and it was ! ” 

Christina was pale. 

“ She wasn’t to be married until tomorrow,” she insisted. 

“ Well, she’s married. My dear, she looked awful. Teddy 
says — ” 

“Oh, damn Teddy!” snapped Christina and was sorry. 
“ I don’t mean that, but I’m so used to danming your 
young men that I can’t get out of the habit. Did they go 
away together — Steppe and she?” 

“No — she’s gone back to the house with her father. 
Steppe — is he a man with black whiskers — well, he went 
alone,” 

Christina kicked off her slippers determinedly. 

“I’m going to see her,” she said. 

“What do you think you can do?” asked the scornful 
Evie. “ Take my advice, Christina, never interfere between 
man and wife. Teddy says — ” 

“I repeat anything I have already said about Teddy,” 
remarked Christina. “ Chuck over my shoes, Evie.” 

350 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


351 


She could not tell Beryl. She could tell nobody. Ron- 
nie Morelle must be interpreted by those who saw. 

She strode out thanking God for life, and Ambrose 
Sault for the tingle of her soles upon the pavement. Spring 
was in the air, the park trees were studded with emerald 
buttons; some impatient bushes had even come fully into 
leaf before the season had begun. The sky was blue and 
carried white and majestic clouds; the birds were chat- 
tering noisily above her as she came through the park 
and the earth smelled good, as it only smells in spring 
when the awakening of life within its bosom releases a 
million peculiar odors that combine in one fragrant nidor. 

To Beryl’s eyes the girl, with her peaked face and her 
flaming hair, was a vision of radiance. 

“So good of you — ” Beryl was on the verge of a 
breakdown as Christina Colebrook put her arms about her 
shoulders. “So lovely of you, Christina — I wanted to see 
you. I hadn’t the energy to move — or the heart.” 

“Why today?” 

“Steppe knows everything. He insisted upon today. 
As well today as tomorrow. I am troubled about father. 
I feel that something dreadful is going to happen. He is 
so restless and he has asked John Maxton to come; John was 
a great friend of my mother’s. In a way I’m almost glad 
that there is this other trouble hanging over us — that 
sounds cruel to poor daddy, but it does distract me from 
— thoughts.” 

“What is this other trouble?” 

But Beryl shook her head. 

“I don’t know. There has been some unpleasantness 
about a company father floated. Jan Steppe did it really, 


352 


\ 

CAPTAINS OF SOULS 

father is only a figurehead. He has had people to see 
him, people from the Public Prosecutor’s office. He doesn’t 
talk much about it to me, hut I have a premonition that 
all is not well. But, Christina, I’m just whining and whin- 
ing at you, poor girl!” 

“Whine,” said Christina. “Go on whining. I should 
scream! Beryl, my love, you have to do something for me, 
something to relieve my heart of a great unhappiness. I 
intended seeing you today — you had my letter? — well. 
I’m too late to stop you marrying. I thought I would be 
in time; but not too late to save your immortal soul.” 

“What—?” 

“ Wait. I want you to promise me, by the man we hold 
mutually sacred, that you will do as I ask. No matter at 
what inconvenience or danger.” 

“ I will do anything you ask,” said Beryl quietly. 

“What time do you meet this Steppe?” 

“ I call for him at eight o’clock. The boat train leaves 
at nine-thirty.” 

“At eight o’clock you will go to Ronnie Morelle.” 

“No, no! I can’t do that — ” 

“You promised. You will see him: go to his flat and 
see him. Tell him you are married. Tell him the truth, 
that you are going away with a man you hate. Tell him 
that Steppe knows.” 

“I can’t! You don’t know what you’re asking, Christina, 
I’ve — begged Ronnie before — begged him to run away 
with me. I can’t do that again. It is impossible.” 

“You need beg nothing — nothing. Just tell him.” 

She caught the girl to her. 

“Beryl, you’re going to do what I ask you, dear?” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


353 


“Yes — you wouldn’t ask me — ” 

“ Out of caprice,” finished Christina, “ or cussedness, or 
a wish to try experiments. No. But you must go. Beryl. 
I — I think I should kill myself if you didn’t.” 

“Christina! What do you mean?” 

“ I mean it is life to go and death not to go I ” said 
Christina, with a sort of ferocity that staggered her com- 
panion. “That is what I mean.” In a quieter tone: “Have 
you seen Ronald lately?” 

Beryl shook her head. 

“No. I saw him that night — the night they killed 
Ambrose — oh — ” 

“Don’t gulp,” warned Christina. 

“I’m not gulping. I’m yearning. I saw him yearning 
once, the dear, I am trying to find some of his strength 
now. It is a little difficult.” 

On the way home Christina dropped into a telephone 
booth and paid three precious pennies. 

“Ronnie! Christina speaking. Beryl is coming to see 
you tonight. At eight. Wait for her — don’t dare to be 
out.” 

She cut off before he could ask questions. 


XIV 


Sir John Maxton stayed to dinner. Beryl did not put 
in an appearance until just before eight. 

“Already, Beryl?” 

Dr. Merville scrambled up. His face was gray, his eyes 
sunken, the hands that took her by the shoulders shook. 

“My dear — I hope I have done right. I hope I have 
done right, my little girl.” 

She tried to smile as she kissed him. 

“Can’t I take you to Berkeley Square, Beryl?” asked 
Sir John. 

She shook her head. 

“No, thank you, John — goodbye.” 

They stood together, bareheaded, on the pavement, and 
saw her go. A drizzle of rain was falling, the dull red 
furnace glow of London was in the sky. 

Together they walked back to the dining room and Max- 
ton did not break in upon the doctor’s thoughts. 

“Thank God she’s gone,” he whispered at last, “John, 
I’m at the end, I know it. Perhaps he’ll help after — 
I’ll be satisfied if he makes Beryl happy.” 

“ He could help now,” said John Maxton. “ Why do you 
deceive yourself? How can you hope for anything from 
Steppe? I wish to God I had known that this infernal 
marriage was for today.” 

“ She wished it,” said the doctor, “ I should not have 
insisted, but she wished it. Steppe isn’t a bad fellow — ” 

“Steppe is a scoundrel and nobody knows that better 
than yourself. Why are you in any danger from the law? 
354 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


355 


Because you copied a draft prospectus which Steppe drew 
up and issued it in your own name. Steppe has only to 
appear as a witness and tell the truth, and he would find 
himself in your place — supposing this comes to a prose- 
cution. But he won’t. He could have saved — ” 

He stopped. 

“Ambrose Sault?” 

“He could have saved the body of Ambrose Sault from 
annihilation by a word! The draft of the prospectus is in 
existence. It is in the safe that Sault made. Steppe could 
open it and ninety-nine hundredths of your responsibility 
would be wiped out. But he won’t risk his own skin.” 

“You think they will prosecute, John?” 

Maxton considered. There was nothing to he gained by 
evasion. 

“ I am sure they will,” he said quietly, “ if I were the 
Public Prosecutor I should apply for a warrant on the 
facts as I know them.” 

The door opened. 

“Will you see two gentlemen from Whitehall?” the maid 
asked. 

It was Maxton who nodded. 

“ Bertram — you have to meet this ordeal — coura- 
geously.” 

The doctor got up as the detectives entered. 

“ I am Detective Inspector Lord, from Scotland Yard,” 
said the first of them, “you are Dr. Bertram Merville? 
I have to take you into custody on a charge of misrepresen- 
tation under the Companies Act.” 

“ Very good,” said Dr. Merville, “ may I go to my room 
for a moment?” 


356 . 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“No sir,” said the inspector. “I understand you keep 
a medicine chest in your room.” 

Maxton nodded approvingly. 

He did not go to the police station with the prisoner. 
He went in search of Beryl — and Jan Steppe. 


XV 


Ronald Morelle on the hearthrug before his electric 
radiator watched the fiery little wave that moved along the 
surface of the element. 

In such moments of complete detachment, when his 
mind was free from the encumbrance of active thought, 
he received strange impressions. They were not memories, 
he told himself, any more than are those faces which 
grow and fade in the darkness just between sleeping and 
waking. They were whisps of dreams that were born and 
dissolved in a fraction of time. He had seen such clouds 
grow instantly above the lake of Geneva, and watching 
them from the terraces of Caux, had of a sudden missed 
them, even as he watched. 

So these impressions appeared and vanished. There was 
one that was distinct and more frequent than emy other. 
It was of a hut, long and narrow. Two broad sloping 
benches ran down each side and these, at night, were packed 
with sleeping men. The door to the hut was very solid and 
was locked by a soldier — he could sometimes hear the 
swish of the soldier’s boots as he paced the gravel path 
surrounding the hut. Once a man had died — Ronnie 
helped to carry him out. It was a plague that had struck 
the island — island? Yes, it was an island, in the tropics, 
for the nights were very hot and the plants luxurious. 

“There is a ring — will M’sieur require me?” 

“Yes, stay, Frangois.” 


357 


358 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


Ronnie jumped up and dusted his trousers. Another 
second, and he was halfway across the room. 

“ I’m so glad that I came, Ronnie: it wasn’t that Christina 
insisted: I wanted to see you, dear.” 

How pale, how ill she looked, he thought, with a sinking 
heart. She was going away somewhere, for she was dressed 
for travelling. 

“Beryl, my dear, you are not well?” 

“ Oh, I’m well enough, Ronnie,” she glanced back at the 
door. She expected that any moment Steppe would come — 
he would guess. There was a train to be caught too — 
the madness of this visit! 

He held both her hands in his. 

“Beryl, they tell me you are going to be married — 
that isn’t right. Beryl, is it?” 

She nodded. 

“ But Beryl — ” he stopped. “ I saw you once and I was 
cruel, wasn’t I?” 

“What is the use of talking about it? Ronnie, I hope 
you are going to be a better man than you have been. I 
admire you so much for defending that poor girl. You 
are trying to be different now.” 

“I think so.” 

“And — I’m believing you, Ronnie. It is not easy to give 
up that life? Won’t you want to go back to it again?” 

He smiled. 

“ I will take away from thee the desire of thine eyes, 
with a stroke, yet neither shalt thou mourn nor weep.” 

She looked at him fearfully. 

“Ronnie, how solemn you are — and you are so strong 
too — I feel it. Ronnie, I am married!” 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


359 


He bent his head as though he had not heard her. 

“I was married today to Steppe. Oh God, it is awful, 
Ronnie, awful!” 

He put his arm about her and kissed the tearful face, 
and then — 

Crash! 

The door shook again. 

“ I think that is your husband,” said Ronnie gently, 
“will you go into my room?” 

He opened the door for her and said “ yes ” with his 
eyes to the alarmed Francois. 

Steppe flung himself into the room. In his great fur- 
collared coat he looked a giant of a man. 

“Well?” said Ronnie. 

“Where’s my wife!” The man’s voice vibrated. “You 
swine! Where is my wife — she’s come here — I know, to 
her damned paramour. Where is she?” he bellowed. 

“She is in my room — ” said Ronnie, and Jan Steppe 
staggered back as if he were shot. 

“ In your room ! ” He sounded as if he were being 
strangled. “Well — now she can come to my room! You 
called me an ape this morning. I’ll show you what kind of 
an ape I can be ! Beryl ! ” he roared. 

She came out, a tragic figure of despair. 

“ So you had to come and see him, eh — ” 

Francois had opened the door again, and a man came in 
unannounced. 

“ Steppe!” 

It was John Maxton, and Steppe turned with a snarl. 

“Merville has been arrested.” 

“Well?” 


360 


CAPTAINS OF SOULS 


“My father! Arrested? Jan, I must go back — ” 

“You’ll go with me, huh! I haven’t married your father 
or your lover, either.” 

“What are you going to do?” demanded Maxton sternly. 

“Catch my train! You can’t stop me — ” 

“ Steppe, for God’s sake think what you’re doing.” 
Sir John Maxton was pleading now with a greater intensity 
than he had ever pleaded before a tribunal. “You could 
save Merville — you have the draft of the prospectus — ” 

“In the safe! In the safe!” roared Steppe his face 
inflamed with fury. “ Come, Beryl.” 

He held out his hand, but she shrank hack behind Ronnie. 

“Then open the safe,” demanded Maxton. 

“ Go to hell ! All of you — don’t stand up to me, Mo- 
relle, or I’ll kill you! Beryl — ” 

“Wfliat is the word — this combination word, Steppe? 
You can get away tonight, they will find nothing until the 
morning — ” 

“I won’t tell you, damn you! I’ll see you — ” 

“Judas!” 

Ronnie Morelle stood, his finger outstretched stiffly 
pointing at the other. 

“Judas — J — U — D — A — S. That is the word!” 

Open-mouthed Steppe lurched toward him. 

“You — you.” He struck, but his blow went wide and 
then Ronnie had him by the shoulders and they looked into 
one another’s eyes. 

Beryl, horrified, sick with fear, saw her husband’s face 
go livid, saw him grimace painfully, monstrously. 

“I know you — !” he screamed. “I know you! You’re 
Sault! Ambrose Sault! — you’re dead! They hanged 


CAPTAINS OF 30LX3 


361 


you, blast you! Ambrose Sault — ” He put out his huge 
hands as to ward off a ghastly sight. 

“ Come along, Beryl,” he mumbled, “ you mustn’t stay 
here — it is Sault. Oh, Christ — ” 

He went down in a heap. 

Beryl came forward groping like one blind. 

“ Ronnie ” She stared into his eyes, and in his agita- 

tion he put his knuckle to his chin. “ — oh, my dear!” 


XVI 


a 

“Personally,” said Evie, “I think she should have 
waited six months. After all, Christina, even if her father 
was acquitted, there is a scandal. I admit she was a 
wife in name only, as the pictures say, but she was Mrs. 
Steppe. Teddy quite agrees with me: he says that it isn’t 
decent to marry within a week of your husband’s death. 
Don’t think I’m hurt about Ronnie getting married, I 
wouldn’t be so small. It is the principle of the thing.” 

Christina’s mouth was bulging: Ronnie had sent her 
imposing quantities of candy. 

“Pass me that book about Beaulieu that you’re sitting 
on, and don’t talk so much,” she said. “You’re a jealous 
cat.” 

“ I’m not, I doolar® I’m not. I like Ronnie I admit, 
but there was something lacking in him — soul, that’s what 
it was, soul!” 

“Did Ambrose Sault have soul?” 

“Why — yes, I always thought he had soul.” 

“ Then shut up ! ” said Christina, opening her book, 

THE END 


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